Tuesday, 13 October 2009

On a scrape of sand

Caught in the flagpole, a blues harp blows and draws on one reluctant reed.

The wake of a tourist boat licks a scrape of shore with dark dashes of Morse code. They mark out the time long after the boat has turned for home.

And out on that scrape of sand, within the breathy metallics of wave sounds, the town has fallen from behind me. An ozone curtain drift has pillowed it out.

I watch the speckled screens of sea shimmer within each leggy frame of the wrecked pier, and I'm drawn to follow the horizon mirage of billowing dust cloud against the white-out of too bright sky. A speedboat races like a spluttering pen writing in a truck on a stony road.