|
Wet Welsh Sunday Afternoon
Rhyll in November, storm-pitched, windswept
seafront attractions, shuttered bar one
flashing arcade blaring music but empty,
no larkin girls, posters defaced with graffiti,
shops closed for the season, junk mail piles
behind boarded doors, hope fades, paint peels.
Across darkling sands shrouded watchers
stand waist deep in white-whipped waters,
silently waving gigantic arms;
onshore, stray dogs, waterproofed walkers
lean into the wind searching in vain
for joy in an icy circle of hell. Then rain
.
eases to drizzle, distant mists drift;
sea-born two light-drenched arches arise
echoing colours against yellowed skies
faint-mirrored below on glistening grey sand:
gateways. Beyond, waves of white sirens
invite us to enter a happier land
of joy and love and light that lies
far from our shore with its greed and vice,
till mists enclose, dark curtains fall
on our fleeting glimpse of paradise. |
|
|
