Sea Breezes and Passers-by

To what end, from Mallarmé’s example,

do I now assemble

thoughts of sailing somewhere

I shall never know and,

arriving, discover was never there?

 

For better the hell of where I am:

on my unCarribean island awash with cars

rolling up the motorway and rolling back;

with these - not melon-smile neighbours that doze

on their porch - but surly sods

making a quid round the back,

or banging home from the pub,

as I settle for the monotony of British grub.

 

To what end, Baudelaire, in your sonnet,

did you once celebrate

eyes that met, paths that crossed

in a Parisian street,

your glimpse of a woman you might have loved?

 

For better the hell of who we are:

bricked into ourselves, in rooms of our own,

not knowing, not seeking, other universes;

not being over the road, drawing curtains

on mistresses’ afternoons;

not jumping universes

to outlive the rollers’ run,

or f**k the impossible arrayed in the sun.

 

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