Ladders of the South Coast
More exposed than cliff-top shrubs, or desperate like the man in the dole queue stood in the grooves of routine. His parking spot reserved indefinitely after a third redundancy in as many years. Blighted eyes remember days of promise while ticking forms for ballot boxes. Now, a punch-bag for racists on a Friday night, but no one goes out Fridays nowadays. They, too, have abandoned him.
Balancing books with sea legs like riding space hoppers over sand that fell from the Sun’s reach. Ice-flows retreat and seas welcome us home from mountainous plains and out of caves, out of dire conditions, over-indulging sleep and financial starvation. Summer dashes doorsteps allowing spring a year’s good grace.
A mole on the nose of the south coast, I look out over the city I was born and came back to. From here it is not, too, daunting as I recount experiences and drug-hardened smiles, telling disasters, yet reigning with confident eyes that guide words of art, while stinging uncultured retinas.
Two pieces of land that equate to the right and left halves of my brain, separated by a ladder of boats. The sun: sinister and brawn, poked with pitch folks and fierce intrigue all over my body; more exposed than cliff-top shrubs, more desperate than the man in the dole queue.