SCARBOROUGH
The hotel, which still looks the part, has gone
To seed, we’re told, with sad accusing eyes
As if we’d turned away when its prime shone
Across the shore, but couldn’t stem the tide
Of profit and cheap travel. Well, the fish
And chips are still imperial, I exclaim
Like any fool, though, honestly I wish
She’d find a different face to stick the blame.
While donkeys limp with pride along the sand
We look beyond to scant unhurried ships
Tip-toeing over ghosts of Doggerland
And legends of great battles long eclipsed.
The sun winks mischievously on the bay -
It’s grand, though, after all, ain’t it? I say.
MBALE
I told myself to be here when I gazed
On Kasigau; to be there, only that.
I told myself this is the bit that saves
You, saves it, looking longing over flat
Dry miles on miles to that great rearing beast
Of stroppy rock, day after day, not just
Some hopeless homesick boy, I am at least
Alive to beauty rising from the dust.
We smoked our menthol cigarettes, two boys
In luck, forlorn in different ways, and gazed
On Kasigau each day, shut out the noise
For minutes, happy in our different ways.
I must have been there. Memory speaks loud
That, in one task, I did my future proud.
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