Poem 161: Clacton Hymn

looking back in sunlight over our shoulders
at the blowing wave dappled sea
through our light enamored eyes,
with the sister of mercy still passing by
flying her habit against the restless
and holy pentecoastal sky,
she smiling inwardly and outwardly
as we both heard the crippled lady
in the old empired and creakingly brittled
cane bath chair wheelingly exclaim
in a spray spittle flecked prayer
of clattered vowels and dribbled nouns
that hymned an oh so gracious thank you
to the sea, “that is quite romantic”
and although this was croaked and cloaked
in a harsh and almost disbelieving
array of deliverances, I believe
she was speaking in tongues
as was the church sheltered catholic
bronzed and prow mounted feminine Christ
when he was fishing for male complements
walked on the sea front and captured
the shoals of light that riccoched
into this arc of compromised sky
stretching his shadowed vision
to the far horizon of now,
where in water colours mirrored
by ribbons of silver, the toy blue
coastal train, huffing and puffing
crusadingly along this sea front
to do battle with our pretentious infidelities
and blow our many mansions down,
as it entrances with this rocking light
now pied piping the children
into strands of opalescent fire
onto the concrete storm barriered beach
where the battened sun lies
dreaming warmth into the sea swept
and mythically patient stone.