Seahouses

this may be the first of a series of peoms about the coastal border, and of
course it is a ³true² story. (I think the fashion for fictional poetry will
come and go.)

Seahouses

Seahouses - a coast of romance
where you hurtle over the border in a car
that packs up on you , matter-of-fact,
unanswerable, so Steve the Scot
appears from one of the secret side roads
that trickle out to the end of land,
takes charge of your broken accelerator
and key, picnic,  spare shoes and all
while you grab books, poems and fellow poet
pick your point on the A road and start to hitch
thumbing a lift and trying not to hum out
your nervousness as you hiss ³smile!²
to the virgin hobo slightly your senior
caught up in an undignified
wait by the roadside. But look, he comes,
the dapper diver, demon driver,
scooting down to mend a computer
who takes it upon himself to get you
to your poetry reading on time. He does so
with the help of his family, whom he organises
on his mobile phone. Then you find out
that Katrina Porteous, who lives at Beadnell,
uses the same garage and knows Steve.
Beadnell of seashore life and cowrie shells.
Seahouses of trips to the Farnes.
O that light I had seen on Lindisfarne
when I did not have a story!
I have a story now.
Although a story of land not sea
a story of travel not yet completed,
a story of wide Northumberland beaches
and half deserted Northumberland roads
where those going south are going to Newcastle
and those going north are going to Edinburgh.
England and Scotland - my head is spinning.
Two countries so distinct and yet
so long entangled - in north Northumberland,
Seahouses to be exact.