Grey and Yellow
The bloke at 21’s got a Morris Minor:
Dead Mouse Grey, shiny hubcaps.
Schoolday mornings, he backs it out the garage
with all the care of a new dad with a pram;
and while he’s closing the up-and-over door
his children honk the horn, laugh, squeal.
When driving it he wears a fluorescent vest –
just in case, you know. Just in case.
As we expectantly approach,
four oystercatchers greet the boat,
a kleeping aerial escort; then
more on the foreshore survey us,
nervous in their authority.
I follow the path that hugs the island’s fringes.
Sure, there are gulls, cormorants, even pheasants,
but there are always oystercatchers,
ubiquitous as tabloids,
black and white, a startling of red.
A solemn dozen, gathered where
the beach comes to a point,
spooked by throbbing jetskis, scatter
then piecemeal reassemble, reconvene
and recommence their island council meeting.
Lorry delivering gas cylinders;
ambulance delivering young woman
about to be delivered of her child;
the vehicles side by side as if duetting,
the four orange flashing lights on the back of the lorry and
the four orange flashing lights on the back of the ambulance
almost but not quite in sync:
a visual representation of Reich’s “Piano Phase”.
Flights, Issue Eight, March 2023