ROSS’S POINT
Hot chips still smell like Ross’s Point to me,
In July 1985. I run,
The fastest Bajan paceman, as the sea
Late cuts the harbour, as a struggling sun
Relinquishes control, I run, and bowl,
And calculate the damage done, the salt
Can sting, the bragging waves swallow me whole,
still I’m a Caribbean lighting bolt.
And chips still, sometimes, smell like Sligo’s coast
And beer and smoke and brine and pride and charm,
Like putting all your stories in the post,
An English-Irish boy bowls fast left-arm.
He stumbles on the cobbles, almost falls,
He rises, plaudits ring off harbour walls.
COLETON FISHACRE
The age of Hipstamatic, albeit brief,
leaves lasting traces, like the flower frames
of Coleton in its blazing March relief,
a place of arts and crafts and parlour games
through mimicked ages of enchantment leant
a blooming swagger by the shaded edge
of artifice, with not a tree unmeant,
not one untended shrub or unkempt hedge.
A perfect place for murder, this, of course.
Paths snaking down to hidden coves and cliffs
While raucous soirees seethe, and slowly force
The opening up of deftly plotted rifts.
The killer would be captured, gleaming bright
And elegantly hiding in plain sight.
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