A seagull flies towards the horizon.
I look over blues upon greens
rocks as rugged as lone cowboys, John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, that sort of thing, you know?
I look upon the wall,
the wall that stretches past fallen ice cream and balloons running free,
the wall that travels parallel with the azure skies with white candy floss,
the wall heaving with living green and ants
returning home after a hard day’s work.
Denim and cotton,
clothe the boy with messy hair
squinting into the distance
of Sea-Houses Harbour.
Upon the needles and plates, the waves crash one by one,
salt ebbs through the moss and algae
a process that will take an eternity,
but water will wait. It’s a patient being, you know.
A 12 second melody is sung from the ice-cream vans,
as people queue endlessly for their sticks of rock,
being slowly tempted by fish and chips wrapped in the Sun,
salt and vinegar seep through column by column.
Idle talk falls from tourists posing by their attractions
and locals catching rays on their deck chairs,
a book on their chests,
as their sunglasses lie crooked on their oily faces.
I absorb all this in a huge breath of contentment,
you can’t go through life too quickly, you know?
A foghorn tells me that it’s time to go,
I hear a camera shutter clicking.
I was at my writer’s group and the theme was poetry. Our task was to think of a portrait of ourselves and write a poem about it. The portrait I chose is the same one that’s on my about page.