Ryde Pier

Erotic ironwork
curvy
flirtatous
black and lacy pleasure
peer through
the Victorian peephole
into a lost era
savour its saucy angles
its hard, horizontal lure
then act on impulse,
follow it out of town

Shelley McAlister

Chine Women 1785 (see note below)

Huddled round smoking fires,
driftwood warmth in a bitter winter,
women without men, they waited.
They knew in advance, smelt it
in the salt air, felt it
in the merest shift of breeze.
Fingers picked at nets,
empty without men, pressed men,
gone. Mothers, dumb with hunger,
waited, eyes fixed on lanterns and sticks.

The wind turned and tore down
horizons; compass points reeled.
Walls of darkness ripped
from sea flung themselves
against night sky. Daughters danced
on cliffs, sulphur lights drawing in
the wind-steered ship.
On the shore the women waited
whilst timbers split, their merciless hands
on lanterns and sticks.

Pat Murgatroyd

Grange Chine

No sea wall here; a red cliff crumbles,
pebbles jitter down a shining lick
of stream, startle Sunday morning dogs.
Sandstone, separated by stun of sea,
masquerades as statue, smooth
façade of permanence. Under porous
oozing lip of cliff, green stains grow,
ghosts of moss on dry stone walls.

Lydia Fulleylove

Spinnaker Dance

In the blink of the photographer's eye
Clack of shutter catches the moment
When crazy rainbows whirl round the sky.
One, two, three spinnakers ripped loose
- ropes holding hands in the wind -
Flirt with freedom, dance round mainsails.
An instant later they will be flotsam, debris.
Just another spill as someone's sail
Slaps the sea.

Pat Murgatroyd

Erosion

Slabs of cliff like tilted chocolate
Snap and dump of toffee monoliths,
Amber contoured bullseyes,
Chunks of blue-clay fudge
on violet sherbet sand.
Wine gum seaweed wraps sticky strips
Round pear-drop pebbles, honeycomb stones.
From far above sea-thrift clings;
pink candy floss on crazy angled ledges;
the last icing on a crumbled cake.

Pat Murgatroyd

Country Cottage

Under its heavy brows of thatch
The house sits, sulky and squat,
Hunched against the winter storms,
Hiding from the summer heat.

Sheltered by a busy hawthorne hedge,
Smudgy white, broad bean flowers
Rub shoulders with crimson peonies.
Beetroot grows beside sweet scented pinks.

The rising sun shines at the back door.
And winds blow in from the Steppes.
A black range scowls at the floor
While the dinner struggles to cook.

Aunt Jinny skins and cleans
Snared rabbits, to make a pie
And I cannot ride home on my bike,
After drinking her sweet damson wine.

Evening light rests in the parlour
Crammed with stiff horsehair sofa,
Hard wooden chairs, a round table,
A few china ornaments and tears.

Marion Carmichael

Rusting Hulk

Registered at Cowes - you're sure of that?
Hard to conjure up images of a royal launch,
Lengths of ribbon, showers of bubbly,
More like half a can of bitter

Working boat she looks like,
Jill of all trades I guess.
Prospects jiggered by the fishing quotas,
Forced to tout for any work that's going.

Never made it for those oysters,
Two short weeks of printing money,
Creels suspended from the quay at Yarmouth,
Bound for France and warmer waters.

Missed the boat, she has, you could say.
Now some bastard's nicked her engine,
Ripped her guts out, left her mouldering,
Barely lifting with the thrust of springs.

Joan Waddleton

The Longstone on Midsummer's Evening

We return as we always said we would.
White foxglove path climbs through sweet honeysuckle,
slips out onto open hill.
The stone stands still; another summer breathes around it;
sea gazer, sky searcher, earth dweller.
We stand and let the stone absorb our fingerprints.
Timeless, shadowy travellers
lay gifts of flowers on creviced flanks.
Horses keep watch, while rabbits scatter in the dusk.
We leave the ache of a nightingale's song.
A fine dog fox gives us good night.

Shore Women Group Poem