Out of Season

Iron squall of sea lays claim to barren shore.

I unfold mother's chair, wheel her onto the prom

wind driving hard this side of the rail.

 

No others here, only crested gulls

scouring debris of a high summer gone.

Nack nack nack: fisher-souls calling.

 

I hiss at the grey-crewelled sky for a while

pour a lukewarm brew from my tin flask,

fuss a while over mother's hat and scarf.

 

Years ago, at this same place,

she fussed me - the boy that I was,

prone to fever.

 

Then the promenade was alive

with the scent and shimmer

of summer and she monitored my

 

temperature on the sand,

afraid that illness, like a sea-ogre,

might rise and snatch her boy away.

 

I felt her warmth, stronger

and more permanent than

any smouldering holiday sun.

 

Her hair jet black, she slept

on a golden towel - a swim-suited goddess

whose perfect skin contained a perfect heart,

 

an all-knowing presence following me

along the sands, as I marched in time

with bucket, spade and bell jar.

 

Now the years have gathered her in,

shaken the black from her hair,

etched themselves deep

 

into her half-numbed face. She rarely speaks,

and when she does the words slap and slur

like breakers against rock.

 

"Do you remember when we came here ?

We sat this side of the rail. I caught a crab in the sand -

held it high in my glass jar."

 

No. She doesn't remember. That memory

has been slashed and thieved like a chunk of

distant shoreline, submerged within

 

her mind's oceanic slew, replaced by a

starry-eyed glance that awaits with

a sparkle the final kiss of its maker.

 

We sit on the empty prom, steadfast against

bitternorth winds - out of season, out of rhyme.

We could be anywhere.