This week we have two poems from Gillian Fisher.
Fresh salty air seasons a brisk walk
along a Suffolk sea-front
on a shabby-skied December day –
and bathes the stucco-fronted array
of cottages, as I amble along.
Groynes and shuttered souvenir shops
remain to see, and emptied pools:
and skating rinks that felt the year’s
last roller-wheels come to a stop.
The sea is a dame with swaying skirts:
not catching our notice somehow hurts.
She cultivates a petulant attitude –
the pebbles crackle . . . goodness what a mood!
SEPTEMBER’S LATER DATES
Rain, tumbling from wind-shifted clouds
hands drinks to thirsty flowers,
and splashes moseying fairground crowds
who hazard late summer’s frequent showers.
There are, still hours, though
a chilly breeze adulterates
calm days; they so rapidly go.