A Tale of Two Cities
Marble columns, high grade fascias, marks the street where wealth resides. Modern concrete blast, without window freesias, marks where the poor stalk. So to our pocket some might balk. But too right they would not talk for each world was a stranger to the other. Even at the market counter there is a feverish hand, we cannot avoid to notice among the bastard brands. Those that can add wealth at random, by an accident of the kingdom. wait with fear for expected cure. Efforts press the heart many suffer, emotions run through the body to the mind causing a faint tick in the thoughts of the bluffer. It is said the heart grows fonder but for some it is a bind for their passion cannot be bound, striking out when they are constrained by keys. Wealth passes by unconcerned with unseeing eyes. Privilege is marked by secluded access not the open stall of table-top wares. In secret vaults everything is excess, those with not much are weary at supper, even best laid plans can be subject to rupture. To wander forever is the scripture but not everyone has to hold up the cross.
It's close company like fetching a cup of coffee or applying the lotion, or just talking. It's when the phones come out that things really kick off; he's staring at it - his partner is waiting not for the news but wanting to go out - NOW. Anger rises she storms off later we see them apart on different sides of the street trying to look discreet but you know there is upset. When does it turn to disappointment the sadness of silence. We are lucky there are no guns just large spaces between the recliners. Women are bright - neon clothes at night the men accept the right to be ignored ! Is it the place that does it with no job or gym to run too? Is it the cats around the pool mothers with kittens, jumping about all at play, approaching tables, brushing legs? It could be the water of the pool seeding sunlight? Anyway, something is not right kids are figuring out if it is divorce this time. Which adult do they want ? Another ice-cream please, they ask in unison. From behind the dunes a woman appears alone Wearing a sea-blue bikini - he's not there could he be Mr. Big - we'll never know for in the last days they make up. Maybe, they had a photo-shoot his smile and warm words won her back. I saw another unreconciled handing on a plastic bag of ice not for her head but for a sprained ankle which she may have used to press him down into the pavement, when he had called work again on his mobile phone - they were on holiday after all.
TALKING OF BOATS
Today a flat sea reached to the horizon projecting a glass light, on morning calm. A boat moved taking a chartered line. I watched. My toes filtered the sand at the shore’s edge. A mariner shouted ‘Take hold of the rope’. Others pulled the boat, crunching pebbles, on board I sighted flapping fish, gasping. I walked further out, the sea rolled about my knees, screeching seagulls attacked the harbour quay. On another boat a man pulled the net, which had landed fruits of the sea into an ordered pile of yellow thread, aside red buoys marked eyes, scales, fins and blood Swaying, face in shade another dealt with knots in the yellow net re-stringing for future voyage. I waded deeper among the bright colours, wood and lanyards' ringing.. Over the side went the captain his crew shouted hard. But he was already in the blue chasing dolphins. His necklace glinting in the sun. The waves came on, becoming fierce, he turned his head. I saw his eyes - red bitten by salt. Did I want to swim down to his deep locker? Unaware a speedboat came by pulling a skier, in its wake the captain disappeared. All became quiet again, seahorses drifted, then the pedaloes came bobbing back.
David is working hard to keep pace with the ever expanding range of publishing outlets. Each month he tries to send several submissions poetry and prose in response to open invitations. He still engages with online Zoom platforms and local poetry groups, in the North of England.