Saturday, January 2, 2016


"I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas."
(T S Eliot, 'The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock')

Beaches of the western gulf are quiet,
Waves neither crash nor roar,
But sigh and moan,
As if their thoughts
Were deeply drowned secrets
And the shouts of surf
Would render them known.
The day's colours
All fade into one shade -
Ocean, sand too,
Powdered blue-grey, grey-blue.
Some pigments change
Upon sunset's climax -
Scarlet, gold,
Above the craggy peaked view.
Young women pose
For digital portraits,
Picked by fingers
Of doting paramours;
No one, except me,
Seems to see the sea,
Only the girls' wet feet
Can sense its shores.
Ancient ‘farang’ men
Give iced beers a nudge,
Hiding ragged claws,
Minds prone to misjudge.

In January there's a cold north wind,
And even Nordic types
Wear shoes and socks,
While the townspeople
Don scarves and jackets
To watch pale green streams
Slap against the rocks.
There are confusions
In this climate change -
Strangely the sea spray still feels
Slightly warm
For those who know
Places of harsh winters,
And rain comes teeming
Like a summer storm.
Fragrances of pungent leelawadee
Soft mask the scent of salt
On beachside roads,
Mixing with smoke
From street stall barbecues.
Massage shops are empty,
No one disrobes.
The same foreign men
Sip cola and rum,
Hiding ragged claws,
Waiting for the sun.

1 comment:

Gustel Sadre said...

Beautiful description.