Paul Summers
Glass
All morning sandpipers
Spin and reel in milky fog
Rising in a synchronised skip
On the slow lap of the tide.
An old man collects sea-glass;
His shuffle meticulous,
His eyes fixed like eagles’.
He drops each frosted jewel
Carefully into a nap-sack.
There are whispers of senility
Back at the allotments
& Archie’s glass hoarded
By the bean-canes like Marner’s gold.
Occasionally, he is static, in reverence -
His bare feet, leather-skinned & salt-white
Sinking like picture-hall Wurlitzers
Into the sand: the ice mosaics
On the rippled floor, the double rainbow
Slouched above the harbour, the dead seal
On the drift-line - swelled to a split,
Like a fatty sausage too quickly fried.
Page(s) 175
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