A Snapshot of the Ancestors
They stand on a shingle beach, brows furrowed
by the weight of the sky. The city is over the horizon,
a train's length away. Here the sea scent swells
pale chests and small waves shiver their strangely
bare toes. I know that at the bottom of their lungs
London air lingers, smoke-grey and full of voices
but gulls are calling, rowdy sirens, and they wear
holiday like a costume. They feast on skate and chips,
and candyfloss, feed pennies to the brash arcade,
ride painted horses and circle in spoked planes till their guts
heave. Punch cudgels Judy while pierhead bands dispense
Strauss and Sousa. Their fun is as fixed as the sun.
(M.A.Griffiths)
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