Sunday, 19 February 2017

Crosby - a poetry prose poem

Dear Reader,



                                                                                   Madeira Cake


I think the world has got into a muddle about what is real and what is not; we don't seem able to differentiate between the two these days (I am not talking about "fake news" which I can't understand at all).  No, this is back to "The Archers", the radio soap I listen to and have listened to for over forty years.  Apparently a number of academics will speak at a two-day conference in Lincoln, wondering why, as I understand it, no-one in "The Archers" gets fat with all the cake, biscuits and tea they seem to eat and drink throughout the day.  And the academics think the listeners should be told about this worry.  But I myself love hearing that Eddy Grundy is settling down to a piece of Madeira cake at someone's kitchen table, enjoying a bit of village gossip.  What these pernickety academics don't seem to understand is that this is a drama, an entertainment, thought of and imagined by its author, and not reality.  We, the listeners, don't want to think about the characters getting fat because they have eaten a biscuit or a piece of cake.  We want to lose ourselves in the fantasy of the story, uplifted sometimes and sometimes sad, but not wanting a lecture on how much we eat and whether or not it makes us fat.  These academics should have a two-day conference working out what is real and what is not.

                                                                           *
                                                                            
Crosby      (Sculptures by Antony Gormley on Crosby beach)

I pick up white shells from the beach and put them into the pocket
of my dress.

They stare out to sea.  Tall and dignified they stand, all weathers,
undisturbed.  Gulls perch on them, sea salt encrusts their faces, the
tide laps at their ankles, and in the winter fog obliterates their forms.
I wonder, do these statues whisper in the wind to each other?
Talk of important things?  Do they run along the beach when the
crowds have gone or have a swim at midnight?   Perhaps, after dark,
they stare out to the horizon, star-directed, seeking eternity?
And, are they ever lonely?

I walk back to the car park wondering again about what is real
and what is not.

                                                                             *

With best wishes, Patricia

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