Aslan in South Shields

Sand Aslan

Slick seal tide stains silk soft sand
when its  and the persistent push of water
makes a brand new tide of  pebbles

Food Bread in plastic, wrapped in silver,
tea from flasks in stainless steel
cigarettes in slackened fingers

Sisters, brothers,  all garnered
guile and  innocence
paw down  sand in rusty  tins

Sharpened spears of twice-used wood.
 pierce  the sand-scapes

- chips, perhaps,off the old lion block?

(This is a new one. I am stll working on it...as you see W)

Jonathan Ocean Swimming

(New novel: work in progress...)

Jonathon Tye had been sleeping very well at the Maison Bleu. The air was good - balmy but still fresh with salt on the breeze. He had always loved swimming in the ocean and this week he'd managed a several dips in the warm waters of the Mediterranean with the boy Joe Conroy, who was very easy company.

He thought of the time he swam too far out to sea at Scarborough, leaving his mother and sisters shivering behind their canvas windbreaks, raked by the chilly breezes bouncing off the North Sea. That was when he discovered how much he liked sea swimming. In the salt water he felt strong, light and graceful - completely unlike his earthbound, lumbering, oversized self. There in the cold North Sea he had relished his chilly freedom, scything his muscular arms to force his body through the water, now and then turning onto his back to rest his lungs and steady his breath before, gulping air, he turned again to set off again for the horizon. Here the Mediterranean was soft as milk, a different kettle of fish from the North Sea. But there was the same delight in striking out for the horizon.

Then he thought of his headmaster's delight when, as a young teacher he volunteered to drive the minibus to Scarborough for the Wednesday swimming trips: one option on the games afternoons. Although this group were mainly shirkers and dropouts they were no bother. When he parked the mini-bus on the sea-front half of them would vanish, sliding off to smoke or drink, invading of the fairground with infantile glee. They would turn up again at the appointed time and pile into the mini-bus, filling it with the smell of fish and chips and half-digested beer. He would laugh at their groans when he opened all the windows wide and drove fast to get rid of the stench.

Jonathan’s mind moved on now to Joe Conroy and his rather different take on a trip to the seaside. The boy had an intuitive grasp on the right word in the right place and the courage to say what he felt. And he had such experiences, such insights to communicate. Jonathan sensed that there was power there, like a ticking bomb.

Settling into The Maison D’Estella

The town is unchanged. But then it’s only a year since we were here and the town has been here for two and a half thousand years, give or take.

The Maison d’Estella still has its star picked out in stones on one wall and - like the town of Agde - still shows its own layers of time,  here so carefully uncovered by its owner Allan, who restored the house and brought up his  family here.

We managed one blue sky’d fine day when we went along the estuary to the sea at Grau d’Agde where we walked along the wonderfully kitsch promenade,  ate  highly specialised ice creams and watched men who looked like pirates disentangling their fine nets from the detritus from the last trip. They could have the right bloodline. Real pirates were a feature of life here in the seventeenth century.

But the wind whistles round the courtyard and we keep protesting to our friend Pat, who is with us this year,  that the weather has not been itself. The skies have been grey and lowering, T here has even been a patter of (warm…) rain. We have been looking out our wraps and  jackets. We keep telling Pat how usually in June it is fine and bright. Honestly.

My friend Avril arrives on Wednesday to complete the party and tell us that it is raining cats and dogs in England.

But despite the lack of blue sky it’s all still wonderful here. Yesterday was the big market day. I sat on the corner and watched again the kaleidoscope of faces and types. Lots of children. I smile at a  glorious cherub and he pulls his tongue out at me. I go with Debora and Sean to the food-market  and am dazzled again by the colour and variety and freshness of the food laid out there with artistic precision and artisan pride..

A very handsome young man with dark curly hair selects large tomatoes one by one for Debora, who tells him she’s making stuffed tomatoes for our dinner. She buys courgette flowers which, she says, she will stuff with cheese and deep fry for starters.

There’s talk in the house of football and some concern that the referee for one of the England matches who has a questionable reputation. There is the problem of where to watch the matches significant to us –  on the small French TV in the house or out at the Sports Bar down the street, among the French fans.

(I might have an eye to the football but really I’ll be reading Wolf Hall, a reward for ploughing through The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo with mounting disbelief.)

Things are looking up. Last night before dinner we walked along ancient basalt pavement of  the quayside through the heavy scent of a  fantastically blossoming jasmine. We went  to the cafe on the Place de La Marine for a pastis. whose owner  recognised us from last year and gave us a hug, pleased that we had returned.

Later we had the courgette flowers (stuffed with cheese, covered in light frothy batter) and the stuffed tomatoes. There was applause.

Exquisite.

Next – another walk to la Ganguette..

Wild Postcards from The South Shore

 

On the sea-bound temple-stage

children sing and dance for prizes 

and people sit in rows applauding.

 

Do they notice someone’s uncle

hauling beach tents spades  and  buckets ?

Do they notice the tall, tattoo’d girl

shouldering  her orange surfboard?

  

Or two old sisters, arm in arm ,

dressed in fawn with wild blue hats,

who watch the  donkeys on the sand,

savouring the memory

of seaside childhood days ?

 

Or two black dogs, slick with sea water

watching out and contemplating:

friendship, long beach walks

and coming First in Show?

Or the woman with green towels,                   

grey hair, purple top and wobbling breasts

dreaming of her butterfly years.              

Or the plush rabbit

trying to escape

the straw basket of the  girl 

in the  moth-white dress.

Or the old woman sitting on her own

smiling as she taps her finger,

keeping time with the music

and talking to someone

who is not there.

 

 

 

 

 

Wish you were here

wxx