Friday, 31 January 2014

New Brighton, 1978 by Clare Kirwan

New Brighton, 1978

So easy to find myself there –
every hill led to the edge of land.
I’d freewheel without thinking
grey brown river. It meant nothing
to me, yet I sought it out –
it’s brackish solitude and always
the wind – sometimes a howl
you understand, sometimes a sob.

All the wrong way around. I was
too young for such nostalgia
but Seasons in the Sun
stirred up my teething soul.
Those were the days
of blue anorak, battered,
big glasses, briny,
bad hair tattered flags.

The prom was then, as now,
unlovely and all at right angles –
an expanse of pavement, lampposts,
railings, concrete wall, and then
the pirate fingertips of Irish Sea
hypnotizing, enticing me
to that churning horizon.

And going home seemed further
than the journey out had been.
So easy to find myself there,
then turning, realizing the wind
had been behind and pushing.
Head down, salted, gripping handlebars,
fighting back weather and inclination,
thirteen and against everything.

©  Clare Kirwan

From ‘Sculpted’ anthology of North West Poets to be launched in April
Click to go to Clare's own blog 

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