Christmas Eve Beach

 

A toddler dressed in pink hat and scarf

stands on rocks: her arms outthrust like an unwrapped doll.

Her family clings, like limpets. Their voices
merge with the sound of birdcall and the echo

of undertow that pulls water back
to the heart of the ocean. Surfers make for the waves.

Further back, smoke streams from white-washed cottages
set among baubleless trees. Yellow lichen and moss

grow on the salt-encrusted walls of a thousand year old church
concealed amid Cornwall's high cliffs.

Outlined leaves of fern and ivy seem precise and different
as stray particles of sun filter in. There is stillness and silence

beyond the shivering sea - a woven counterpoint to birds
visible on bare branches, bent and distorted by wind.

Valley fields and foliage are suffused with light,
yet all is cold to the touch and the grass is frosted.

Obliterated by time and weather, names on headstones
are illegible - even before the sun sets above the sea.

Imprinted with footprints like cliches
of time, the sand is soft brown but darker, like treacle toffee,

where the tide has receded. Foam curls like frosting, and
like a discarded toy a seagulls feather lays in torn paper seaweed.

 

 

 

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

I found the stanza breaks a bit odd; I didn't really catch the pattern or rationale for putting in breaks where you did; still, that's a techincal thing, and a matter of preference as well. I thoroughly enjoyed the visual nature of the piece--it's highly cinematic. I like the contrast of the new/transient in the surfers played off against the timlessness of cliffs and the church. A very nice piece of work.

[jeRRy.whaLLey]

you've captured all the wee moments that make our contrasting world in the alacrity of your perception and with eyes that are ever open seeing all the world and then you painted it all again with well chosen words in a picture within the eye of we readers - an exercise of clarity and wit well writ in your couplets here that brought to life these meaningful moments so dear - your language is rich and yet you do not over write the metaphor nor force the allusion within it - a wondrous read

[Emily B]

I felt chilled to the bone. Every image is so icy and frozen. It does read very much like a painting. That pink hat and scarf are the focal point of color.

[Cdnsurfer]

A memory? Very self-reflective piece, Vanessa, filled with a sense of nostalgia; not really sad, but bare and quiet. I agree with W.K.'s comments about the breaks; it felt a little disjoint (which perhaps you were looking for in form). I thought, IMHO, these breaks might work better:

A toddler dressed in pink hat and scarf
stands on rocks: her arms outthrust like an unwrapped doll.

Her family [clings] like limpets. Their voices
merge with the sound of birdcall and the echo

[ ] of undertow that pulls water back
to the heart of the ocean. Surfers make for the waves.

Further back, smoke streams from white-washed cottages
set among baubleless trees. Yellow lichen and moss

grow on the salt-encrusted walls of a thousand year old church
concealed amid Cornwall's high cliffs.

Outlined leaves of fern and ivy seem precise and different
as stray particles of sun filter in. There is stillness and silence

beyond the shivering sea - a woven counterpoint to birds
visible on bare branches, bent and distorted by wind.

Valley fields and foliage are suffused with light,
yet all is cold to the touch and the grass is frosted.

Obiliterated by time and weather, names on headstones
are illegible - even before the sun sets above the sea.

Imprinted with footprints like cliches
of time, the sand is soft brown but darker, like treacle toffee,

where the tide has receded. Foam curls like frosting[,] and
like a discarded toy a seagulls feather lays in torn paper seaweed.

Just a thought, you know? I like the image. I wonder where this is, as I can picture it and the rush of surf tugging at the shore. All things flow to the sea.

Nice vignette, Vanessa.

Cheers! Rob

[Blackbirdsong]

I can see that being in Cornwall really inspired some great poetry out of you. I can see everything you describe and feel the mist of the water on my skin. I wish I could describe place as well as you. That's something to challenge myself with in the coming year. You have inspired me as always.

[Sandra]

It's as if a photograph (Thomas Kincade?) has been painted with words. Excellent work in that regard. I like how you take us from the ocean (cliff) to the backdrop of a delightful village(?) and back again. I too, am not sure why the breaks, but it didn't hinder much in the reading of it. I didn't get a Christmas feel as the title indicated, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

Nice work!