Tag Archives: Hula Hoops

South Street Arbroath

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Artist Laura Walker kindly allowed me to use this painting along side my poem. You can visit her site by clicking on the link if you want to see more of her work.

 

 

South Street Arbroath 

Every day is laundry day on South Street.

White cotton flat sheets, stone-washed jeans; yesterday’s pink and yellow striped knickers

Dip and duck like multi-coloured bunting.

 

Children climb up from the beach

Where the sand hems the grassy slope.  Plastic sandcastles filled with shells; razors

And limpets, purple mussels speckled with shingle, and a wee deid crab,

Protected inside a bleached Hula Hoop bag, Crumpled.

 

The children’s laughter rips through the flapping blankets as they zigzag,

dodging Mrs Campbell’s frilly knickers that joyride on the briny wind.

The postman waves.

He’s sinking useless junk mail through the rusty red letterboxes of

the fisherman’s cottages. Unashamed.

 

A peg pings and a denim leg  kicks the sky, snapping the wind as it buckles around a

red rope.

Heaven rests like burning oil on the ocean.

 

A wrinkled man with leather lugs sits outside number twenty-five,

His eyes a hazy mist of blue sea, and cataracts.

He picks up his thick wooden board, red with blood and guts,

A deid head of a deid haddock with deid

Eyes.  He wipes his knife clean on a Pizza Hut flyer.

 

©Eilidh G Clark

 

This poem was first published by Artist Moira Buchanan in her art exhibition ‘All Washed up’. You can follow Moira Buchanan on Facebook by clicking this link  or visit her website.

 

Dead Summer

The following poem was published in The Write Angle Magazine, please check out some of their work on Blogspot .

 

Sheets of amber mist sweep into the woods

and trees,  burst like fireworks

red, orange, yellow and green –

flames against a charcoal sketch of the Trossach’s;

A jaggy cardboard silhouette cut out of a 1950’s film set.

 

Leaves peel from  sodden branches and rock-

A leg and a wing, to see the king, and land beneath

The soles of my Wellington boots,

which mix  the mulchy bracken, into the earth –

a cold casserole of dead summer.

 

The hill is a graveyard.

Thistle corpses are crispy baskets filled with fur, saluting.

Bramble bushes cower like woven nets clutching

Sleeping life. And autumn,

shoots freezing jets into the humid air,

before they rest in basins, waiting.

 

I feel them rise and creep into my hair as I descend

into the valley.

 

My feet kick up a swirling cloud that hovers

over grass. Snapping twigs rudely interrupt

a tap dancing gull,

it hops sideways over a flattened mole hill

which is waving a barbecue Hula Hoop flag.

 

I pause

The ghost of summer wraps around my neck like a feather boa.

©Eilidh G Clark