STANZAS

(after Shelley)

for Peter Albrecht

When the magic wears off

     as it sometimes must

And the dizziest dreams

     crumble to dust . . .

When the name you repeated

     a thousand times

No more is remembered

     in letters and rhymes . . .

When the boy's young body

     with which you were blessed

Is a sleepy old man

     who slowly gets dressed . . .

The nest where you slumbered

     no longer is warm

And the populous pavements

     have lost their charm . . .

When work becomes duty

     instead of delight,

Your partner lacks feeling

     and nothing is right . . .

Let go of everything,

     everything, everything.

Let go of everything,

     let go and let God.




KOKSIJDE BY THE SEA

Then we all went out for a walk.

The indescribable sky of mid-November as far as I remember

contained a freshly picked pumpkin ready for pumpkin soup.

Two photographs of the group

showed us to be enjoying ourselves.

Shapely shoes on shelves in high street shops

made me think of Neruda and peppermint drops.

There was eye contact now and then.

Belgian women are not afraid of English men.

My woolly hair and beard did not seem unduly weird

to the queens of Koksijde.

The two sisters made a dash for Tommy Hilfiger,

leaving me to stand outside like an abandoned bride

or Dante at the gates of Hell watching the children on the caroussel.

Video games, pizza, skirts, more and more shoes.

Get out the old guitar. Play me the blues.

Tell me unbelievable tales of times when nobody had heard of sales

and little fish were never sucked into the jaws of megalithic whales.

Take me down to the beach where prices are within my reach.

Darkness is closing in. Time for cocktails, dates and sin.

Mick slips his foot into a boot masculine but cute

with several yards of lace to keep them in their place.

Now it's Maria's turn. She must have money to burn.

An awkward fit, just below the knee, dampens her frugality.

The pavements are a little thinner as we wander home for dinner

eyeing babies in their prams, O the darling little lambs

pouting at their pretty mothers, playing with their silly brothers.

One more purchase, then we'll go. A last quick look at Bel & Bo.

Cheese and wine and fine charcuterie remind me I am walking by the sea.

This bio place is more exciting. Fantasie grec looks quite inviting.

Cupboards in Hotel MaMa. Handsome stuff but home is far.

A picture which I could have done – a slash of white, a pitch black sun.

Then we all went back to Michel and Martine's shack.

Marcus Cumberlege

Saturday 12 November 11.