Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

    The shadows say quarter to three
as morning sun shines on Polperro –
harbour streets narrow as hallways;
empty lets lined up like shoes, waiting
to be heeled, re-soled, polished up
for next season. No sand on the step
nor odour of seaweed and fish from the cobbles,
just the breath of warm  Prestopasties – Real Cornish:
Indian Chicken and Belgian Chocolate varieties.
We buy saffron buns from the elderly baker
(his native trade and recipe) who sells to the locals.
They serve them sugared, with clotted cream;
a winter treat toasted for breakfast. Out-of-step
tourists, we eat them cold, cocooned in a cove
in the dry harbour mouth. Can’t escape
city life – our office-block habit of standing up
breaks – snatching a snack in a bag. The tide sighs
where traffic would roar, feeding the rush
for a blood-sugar fix, leaving us craving still
more …

        Only eleven flavours of ice-cream. Real Cornish –
are left. A girl reading Hello serves them al fresco,
under the counter a blanket wrapped over her knees.
The Post Office-cum-sweetshop’s been raided.
Fresh produce racks are wiped clean. In The Props
we’re tempted by Thai Wraps struck off the menu.
The Cappuccino machine slurps up our entrance
like dregs through a straw. We bring our own steam,
frosting the windows; strip off gloves, hats, rucksacks;
order hot chocolate. The waiter’s words welcome;
his eyes do not – ring stains clouding the polish.

      Climbing the paved coastal path, we look
back, watch the tired sea rinsing the rock-face, trace
smugglers’ paths in the crags, fishermen’s lives
in the lines. The ghost of activity clings like a masked smell.
In the absence of nets gulls circle us: small fry.
End of season. Given time these birds will morph
into pigeons, migrate to Trafalgar. Imagine them flocking
round Nelson, stealing from tourists caught under his feet
as he keeps an eye on the incoming tide and far distance,
posing concrete command over seas of brown fields.