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

I had the loft room in the Abbey’s fang-shadows,
my toes frostbitten even though bolted down with blankets.
Each morning I’d be woken by the black kipper-tang
and the mouthy gulls that clattered on the slates.

In trepidation we’d tread across the tow bridge
to the harbour, daring each other to shout ‘open sesame!’,
as plump boats choked in the swill of the shore;
we smarted with the lip-smack of salt in the damp,
slapping wind, inhaling the slippery exoticism
of mussel and whelk stalls, and craved the slivers of jet,
sleek black teeth, winking in every window.

There’s a shipwreck just around the corner from a gritty
beachpocket; chomping ham and sand rolls on the way,
we almost splayed a jellyfish that had swallowed fire;
we’d stud the waves with stones and run from dogs
and make up songs and we’d never quite get round the corner.

One saltwater dawn, we were squeamishly dragged
to the market, an auctioneer’s riot, and hopped from
the queasy slither of just-dead fish, vowing vegetarianism.
Later up on the hill, we struck Jonah poses under the
twin whalebones and honed our swing on crazy golf
while we scoffed at the Earl Greys in the Royal Hotel.

Trailing back at night to the heavy slop of the harbour,
past the tinny, teasing arcades, negotiating the maze
of cobbled alleys and clammy archways, we’d dummy
the slugs on the steps and collapse with chips; and then
I’d feel guilty about forgetting that back home
Dad was moving out and that was why we were here;
until Mum said ‘celebration’ and it stung.