I then thought that the distraction might be due to a cooling of passion, which in turn led me to this image of a beach where the tide has gone out. I know two seaside towns famed for their distant oceans Southport in the Northwest of England and Western Super Mare in the South-west. Southport won out due to the brevity of its name.
Like the waves on Southport beach,
his ardour ebbed away,
and though the sea occasionally returned
his appetite did not.
She was used to preoccupied looks,
her mother, after all, had been a poet.
She mapped this retreat of passion,
an ugly algorithm, but accurate.That is a far as I have got with it.
I have attempted to expand his unfaithfulness but, as of yet, it does not ring true.
This second poem is far more serious. I have been working on it for sometime and it is not complete.
I give it to you as it stands.
The wind tunnels about us
and I should have brought a coat.
The third pint greases our conversation,
but what exactly is it you are saying?
I can take the world conspiracy - usually.
Now I listen to the sound of you mangling history,
making it hard to swallow.
The beer lubricates your thought,
gives you a slick argument,
as you hop from here to where?
I am at the border,
you want me to cross,
to be in as deep as you.
But your illogical seven league boots
have carried you beyond the truth.
A newsreel plays in my head
its January 1945.
The Soviet Army liberates Auschwitz.
Hollywood trickery you hastily add.
Through my eyes six million people stare at you.
A gulf that your new world order cannot bridge.
It's time to take sides.
I stand with the dead.
Here are the Mountain Goats live in concert.