Today, hung on sand on the tide-line, the odd
string of bedraggled orange flowers skating
pretty close to sentimentality
I think. A corny statement by the sea
this morning, these festival flowers washed
up at night to adorn only the dark
and unfeeling sand, betrayed as unused
by dawn, etcetera. The transience
of life, of significant occasions,
rendered in these cut and rotting flowers,
laid to final rest without ceremony,
etcetera, etcetera, and so on.
It's cloying really, these sea-treated things,
their grace as deconsecrated discards.
I mean flowers have been done to death - come on!
It's pretty hard to fault the canvas, though,
the marvellously understated sand
ironed flat and wet in tones of ground stone,
flecked with white motes of shell and copper grain;
and you'd be a miserable bastard
to fault the size and ambition of the frame.