|put the kettle on
||[May. 24th, 2013|02:13 am]
8 or so bees in my bonnet
|||||the shins - no way down||]|
knitted like a bobble hat
or a favourite chunky jumper
untasteful but definitely practical..
smelly and friendly like a wet dog
pliable like warm playdoh...
will always remind me of you...
'a place in my heart...'
like a beachnut,
no like a beach hut
shelves littered with the detrius of our throwaway society....
flip flop corner...
some random hermit crab making his escape from
a bundle of found fishing net
down through the crack in the floor...
into the sand
and back to the sea.
the moths and midges gravitate towards the favourite stone shelf
because that's where the gaslamp hisses.
buckets and spades flickering in the corner
between the scraps of rope
the deflated inflatables
and the myriad bottletop construction.
then there is sea purse corner,
tendrils curling round the ever stoic rubber ducks who escaped from the gyre.
panning around the smartphone registers
the garish tatty windbreak
and the 90's ghettoblaster
which still has some juice from those batteries
we bought at the gift shop...
for our imaginary beach hut....
in the outer hebrides...?
you take the camping gaz from the cupboard
and put the kettle on...
the beach is desert island white
the sea azure like a gaudy 70's postcard
the wind tugging relentless through our hair.
but the pub is warm and friendly
where grizzled fishermen philosophise
hardily. by the fire.
between warming shots of smokey single malt.