The granite sea-wall retains heat
so here I choose to pause and watch
the bead-bright fishing-boats at rest,
or bathers, by the slipway, splash,
dive in and scream and reenact
the antics of last year’s warm days.
I try to count the fish that shoal
in hundreds down below the wall:
young mullet, camouflaged and swift,
uncountable, a multitude.
This north coast bay where I’ve washed up,
as flotsam does, is changeable:
tide hastens in, then tide retreats
and coloured boats, like fairground rides,
prance, then lie still, then dance again.
The distant islands, Herm and Sark,
slip in and out of white sea-mist.
and were I painterly, each hour
at Bordeaux surely would surprise
with some fresh image to record.
Now here I sit, the June sun sweet
as kisses on my upturned face,
the granite’s heat a remedy
for old bones nothing else will soothe.
This pleasing warmth, so comforting,
is transitory, gone too soon.
Time speeds away yet still I cleave
to this old sea-wall, granite-rough,
but, hour by hour, its heat will fade
and night will follow soon enough.
Richard Fleming
