Poetry: Edward Clarke

At Rudy’s Bar, Alassio
(After Thomas Hardy)

–                       O how could I order that tuna and chips,
–                       And sip my beer and gaze at yachts and cruise ships
Beyond the tops of changing booths and beach umbrella tips;

–                       And glimpse and catch the sea’s soughing of old truths
–                       Through exhaled smoke of bronze Italian youths
And cries of a fat child a made-up plastic granny soothes;

–                       And not think of a Romantic poet’s pyre,
–                       Or Claude’s Seaport, which Turner set on fire,
Or brine-drenched heroes Neptune saved from Aeolus and Juno’s ire.

–                       But I confess it took an old tourist’s poem,
–                       And my desire to make his tercets my own,
For me to see this sea transcending our own and Aeneas’ Rome.

–                       When we were on our way down here through Nice
–                       We saw b-boys do flares, headspins, then freeze.
On Friday nights the promenade is checked by Finance Police.

–                       But all the while, at the sandy edge of sight,
–                       On feathery legs of old, gods roll from the night,
And we would sense them could we still perform the proper rite.

Feature Image created by Daniele Idini.