how easily you overlook the 1st of march in croyde

there’s a blackbird in the ghost~tree.
ghost.heart at my core.

drive your tinycar
so far away with promises stapled to your reflection in the rear view mirror.
see what good it does.




we woke to seasounds
wrapped in eachothers scent and smiles
and the possibility of
The Most Perfect Day Ever.
Neither your silent promises or your trainers could grip the slanted rocks
as you sideways ploughed down to a foot-wet laughter pool.


I entered the kilns with romantic ideas in my head,
the heat and the fires of the past dampened by the smell of
urine and stale beer.
You lept light~legged through the stream, sand-spread across
the beach, laughing back at me
as I carried my shoes and splashed.
I taught you the difference between Herring gulls and Kittiwakes.


We sprawled on the dunes, climbed steps,
collected those skeletal tree-bones,
polished to satin by storms of salt.
we walked to a view of eternal beauty and you told me how sand-dunes were formed.
I loved you so much that I didn’t tell you I already knew.


We explored the ruin and spoke of the best place for a kitchen.
We had a running race.
You told me of how you felt like a true man
that summer when you laboured for your father,
rough hands and a well earned beer, aching shoulders and satisfied sleep.



Later, as the day let the tide slip away,
we ran pell-mell down silver sand dunes, arms out,
laughing, full of such a pure happiness that the world turned inside us.
That was the moment that tattooed my heart.



I told you that I loved the sea
and you



now you are in Bath, that city of sandstone and wide pavements.
You will pay for your black coffee, two sugars or hot chocolate if
your hands are cold.
I do not know what she will have, but you.
The Most Perfect Day swirled into your drink with a silver spoon
and your dreams of a family balanced precariously on her eye lashes.




~ by Beeskiffle on November 29, 2008.

10 Responses to “how easily you overlook the 1st of march in croyde”

  1. Perfect sound, emotion – it sings. It made me feel sad but that’s good too right? Yeppers. It’s a wonderful poem Ebby, xxx

  2. I found your blog through Poetric Grin and I’m enjoying your work very much. I like the autobiographical nature of your work…your narrative style is enticing to the reader – I want to get to the next line, there is an implication from each line that this is going somewhere – as it did in this poem – and in that consistency from poem to poem, you gain a reader’s trust (so to speak)…thanks for sharing. Best, Darren King

  3. He read it. He could not tell if it was happy or sad. This is how I felt when I wrote it, so I suppose that is fine.

  4. Feelings are good, even if they are a little numbed. Coffee?

  5. wow, that last stanza is amazing, esp that bit with the eyelash

    i have pie to go with the coffee

  6. It is perfect, Ebby.

  7. I’m a little jealous of some of your linquistic snap shots.

  8. Completely beautiful.

  9. Tangible sadness. Memories that still have a bite to them.

    And at the heart of it: the speaker will always know what he’ll be having. Will he ever know how much she knew him? And does he know what she’d be having in a cafe in her own world right now?

  10. That is lovely. I saw the reel playing behind my eyes, and the closing stanza is heart breaking.

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