The Stag Upon The Brean Peninsula: II

I see myself still strolling.

The Stag Upon The Brean Peninsula: I

Lapped waves wash, broken-crested – I am young.

T’was o’er ‘n through this coastly scene we traced the tracks of mem’ry.

I perform great feats.

A blaze-blue spirit, wonder-rapt.

Three wetsuit-wearers, dog, and I.

Endless as the fires of night.

I write another poem for to reassure someone (Me?) that nothing will hinder.

Ends; begins. Writ; collected.

Heat radiates from fires; heat bleeds from th’radiator.

Blank, lined page.

I see that neither muse nor pen is spent.

Watching, all the while, th’Egyptian sky, she breaks upward, stands, and steps over and between baskets of fish ‘n grain…

The boiling blackcurrant’s sipped; thrown.

“Avast!” the axe-fall blade, abrupt, demanded death-industrial: it called, it falled, found its fortune to be laid upon the wharfway stone.