Welcome to the blazing glory of an English seaside summer
THE CLAM HAS A HUNDRED EYES
Cockles and oysters, armed with a hundred eyes
Yet eyeless, limbless, apprehending nothing:
Clinging to the cusp of the sea,
Sifting the scanty silt of meagre, tepid tides:
Dwelling, through unremembered aeons,
Beneath the throbbing North Atlantic drift:
Hugging like wan, grey welts upon
An ancient salamandine shoreline; helpless in their
Immemorial pallor: supine, listless, dreamless,
Dulled through a millennial somnolence;
Buffeted by rain, steeped in wefts of fog -
For this is the history of Earth’s life:
Futile, unaware, unculpable, insensate.
We are the new boys here, the interlopers,
Come with a reckless profusion of purpose.
Black crow of road,
A thick, basaltic asphalt.
The rain, on wrought iron, still pelts; liquefying
Everything, making a mulch of dropped food,
Fabric, run-over pigeons, shopping receipts,
Upon the High Street, in this falling Fall,
She spins amongst the puddles: arms
Outstretched, clasping to grasp the words.
Inside, the tide rises.
Cooling towards the downpour, yet unvanquished…
“I am,” she cries, “I am…so…so…”