Sur La Plage, a poem by Paul Thwaites at Spillwords.com
Auguste-Emile Flick (The Beach at Fécamp)

Sur La Plage

Sur La Plage

written by: Paul Thwaites

 

The moustaches were quite fine messeuir,
Rising as they did, Daliesque towards the eyes,
A spangled costume, red, black,
Round necked, curtailed at the knee,
Afforded you much sun
And you strode well.

Beyond,
The far line of the sea
Had grown continuous,
Breaking its eternal rills,
White against green ~
And then,
When I saw seagulls swoop,
I thought how white,
Their ostentatious handlebars,
Against the blue face of the sky.

I did not know you messieur,
My trousers I wear rolled,
Behind a rustle of newspaper,
Watching the command of your bearing.
I may smoke a cigarette,
Would wear a handkerchief,
Knotted at the corners,
To save my head,
If my wife would let me ~
Much in the manner of Italian navvies:
I may brave a paddle.

From the rear I can see how you strut.
Indeed, who would not,
Having such shoulders?
Again the day hangs like an arse in a deckchair,
And then you are gone messeuir,
A mirage on the horizons of interest,
Perhaps to be found in this crossword,
That the sea accompanies with sighs.

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