A choice, but where?

Looking out to Needle points,
or the bright thread of Alum tapestry?

Yarmouth! A castle view,
Henry's round towers, a pier.

In Newtown,
along the salt marshes,
by once ripe oyster beds?

Or high on High Down?

That's been done before
for the poet, the man, for Tennyson.

In Brighstone then? Or Mottistone?

Calbourne?
Or going right back to Saxon -
by the Long Stone?

Any could face the rural heart,
offer a seat to watch the light.

And the wind in the wheat.

But wind bullies the heather
and bends the trees,
towards the western end of Wight.

So will you sit where we walked
and talked of bench marks?
What will you choose?
Inland? People remembered?
Or outward views, and seagull cries?

Felicity Fair Thompson

A well-placed seat, solid concrete,
at each end carved whales flick their tails,
spout droplets of stone, in the wind sing
their tidal passion, lives on global scale.

Here treachery wears blue slippers
her long train glitters with rainbow light
she shakes loose her green, daisy-strewn curls
signposts whirl, fences sink from sight.

She dances on, in her skirts sea pinks hide,
seat tumbles, sand storms scar the sky
bounced to the beach sea crumbles,
set free in roaring sea     whales sigh,

send up great fountains of spray
salt soothes the land ears from split skin;
crucible tails rise, moonlight splinters
tide silvers a cyclone of fluke and fin.

Cold north waters echo with a new sound
homecoming prisoners sing their freedom.

Marion Carmichael The cliffs of the Isle of Wight are constantly shifting and frequently fall into the sea. The reason for this is the ‘blue slipper' clay which underlies the cliffs.

No bench stands here, and none in sight;
I hope it stays like that always.
The sea shines blue, the cliffs gleam white,
no bench is here, not one in sight,
no-one can sit and, marveling, gaze
from this spot I love with its gorse flower blaze.
No bench stands here and none in sight;
I hope it stays like that always.

Camilla Lambert

For a bench in the wrong place

There are so many lovely places
I wonder why this bench is here?
There are so many sea-sprayed spaces
so many peaceful, pastoral places
where fields are rich and sky is clear
I guess this place brings someone cheer
but there are so many lovely places
I wonder why this bench is here?

Shelley McAlister

We imagined a bench made of chocolate
overlooking tilted butterscotch cliffs
slabs that snap and slide, fall

as toffee monoliths, barley-sugar,
bulls-eyes, chunks of blue-clay fudge
on pink and violet sherbet sand.

We saw wine-gum seaweed wrap sticky
fingers round pear-drop pebbles
liquorice strips on honeycombed stones.

Now, sea-thrift on crumbling ledges
clings like candy floss or the last
icing on the crazy birthday cake

you didn’t manage to eat. No,
this seat is solid, cemented
well away from the dizzy edge.

But sitting here
I have such dreams of you,
my sweet.

Pat Murgatroyd

Many times I’ve shared your bench
that tells your dates of birth and death
then simply says she loved this view.
Today I felt your smile, saw your eyes
follow my first swallow.

Joan Waddleton

No name to this one,
a singular place
to sit in the sun.
No one remembered,
just a planning choice,
a village view,
a use of space,
for grass.

But add my own thought:
The horizon's
near, bright
with new gorse.
Salt air. Sweet,
this bench-mark summer
when everything's changed.
Nothing's arranged,
and there's not just me, there's us.

Felicity Fair Thompson

Her hour; over the green,
feet and hem wet, the seat
dew-damp in dawn light.
Behind, low rooms warm
still with night-breath, small arm
curved against the cradle;
soon bucket clank, tread
of boots will stir the tethered cow,
smoke plumes thread the air.

Church tower dark against pale sky;
across the path, a white tomb
raised for the poet's widow.
For Maggie, her only prospect
this patterned corner, gated in,
the endless knell of hours,
rumbling round of each day's wheel.
Thrushes sing, seagulls soar; for her
one refuge, this bench at dawn.

Camilla Lambert

A bench for the boatyard, the churchyard, the street
a bench on the cliff path to rest weary feet

A bench on the common, the crossroads, the green
for the Brownies, the convent, the village, the Queen

A bench for the efforts of people who serve
for the family wiped out by the road’s evil curve

for the dog walkers, fishmongers, vicars and wives
for the dearly missed loved ones who took their own lives

for the holiday-homers, and marriages long
for lonely outsiders and those who belong

for days on the island, for weeks on the sea
for watching red sunsets from downs, deck and quay

Then, a bench not committed, at peace by the wall
a bench for no reason
no reason at all

Shelley McAlister