Brighton

Stephen Jackson

London, United Kingdom

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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,
Shredded umbrellas.
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…”

Autumn 2007
Stephen Jackson

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desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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