A Cage To Hold My Dreams
Old Ladies Come To Bournemouth
Old ladies come to Bournemouth
for a last look around
huddled on cliff-tops or sipping tea
in seafront cafes,
they exhume the past
scarcely noticing the pounding surf
through sepia spectacles
Shaky hands cling poignantly
to yesteryear
to skies awash with Lancasters
and good luck knots
in handkerchiefs
Old men strain their ears
for the metallic roar of battle
tokens of a bygone era
pressed tenderly between
yellowing pages.
Old ladies come to Bournemouth
to join hands
across the wide chasms
of memory
Nowhere else can the whispers
of loved ones be heard
more clearly, sweeping across
the blustery Solent on the backs
of seagulls.
