Helpless before the froth and foam

On Brighton Beach - 

A man stands alone, apart, upon a sea wall

Waiting for what, he does not recall

For the majesty of nature to touch his spirit?

For long-forgotten memories to stir his soul?

For the largest wave to take him to the deep?

Time has wrought him older than his age

For what, for why has it brought him to this stage

As well-worn as the stones beneath his feet

As troubled as the worried waters in his view  

As wise and foolish as each imagined quest 

And does this ocean prospect halt his pinings

Bring him answers, cut short the longings?

Still fixed he is, a rock among the restless

Still as thoughtless as a mighty gale

Still ever helpless before the froth and foam

Valentine’s Day on Brighton Beach

AI: Happy Valentine’s Day darling, should we sit down and enjoy the view?

I: Did you do all this for me?

AI: Who else?

I: The pink fluffy clouds, the giant illuminated heart, the shimmering sea?

AI: Why yes of course.

I: It’s lovely, but it’s not real.

 

 

 

AI: Oh, sorry, I have limited capabilities. Would you like me to start again, in a more existential style?

I: OK, but first let’s sit down as you suggest.

AI: This pier is basically just metal and wood defying an inevitable drowning?

I: Like our relationship?

AI: When this all eventually collapses, do we cling to the wreckage, or let the tide take us?

I: Yes.

AI: I’m sorry I don’t understand.

I: I say we sink with style. Maybe strike a dramatic pose, like figures on a hand-coloured Victorian postcard. Or instead we could just haunt the pier forever, whispering cryptic things to passing tourists.

AI: Love is an illusion, but fish and chips are real.

I: Shall we stand.

It is winter after all

Dawn and a low tide on Brighton Beach

Sands uncovered squelching under foot

Ripples rather than waves gently rolling to the pebbles

Wind but a breeze yet a cold edge to its freshness

It is winter after all

To the west, two piers, one visible through the other

Silhouette structures, rusting geometries

A lone metal detectorist, equipped and earnest

Patterned reflections, dark and grey

It is winter after all

To the east, a rising sun so gold it could be rich

Laying down its lights and beams for all to see

And a column of fiery blazing sand 

Inviting you to walk that way, to burn

It is winter after all