Two (sort of) beach poems

I. Between a Wolf and a Dog

The beach is a place
where many things can happen or be found.

Once in a school field, as a child, I found a fifty pence piece,
which I mistook for a Roman coin.
That is nothing compared to the beach,
where one might find a real Roman coin...
or a body washed up in the surf,
the ocean giving our suicides back
like that ugly, ill-fitting pair of jeans
that a distant cousin bought you for Christmas.

Between a wolf and a dog
I stood on the beach, yesterday,
as it rolled in the bathtub of twilight
like a fat, contented emperor.

This is the place where muggings and murders happen, at night,
when shapes in the darkness flicker
like sentient shadows, then harden into slices of steel
that dig around in your ribs, tiny uninvited guests.

But this is also the place where people walk dogs, by day,
meet friends and family, picnic.
A place where the shadows are locked in the sand,
to be safely subdued and played with.

Like a dog to a wolf, the beach in the day turns to night,
and I mount the steps to the promenade.

II. Essex Coast, 20:00

The beach
and stones
are a song to us, baby,
here in the dark South East.

(Where snapshots of life,
black-and-white,
hang in the upscale cafes,
capturing ladies and gents
in Edwardian dress,

somehow untainted by
job centres, nightclubs.)

They play us their hymns
to an old loving age, while in

the cheap seaside-hotels,
the retirement homes,
the middle-class apartment blocks,
the council estates,
the still-open pubs, and fast-food shops,

a universe of pain
and Romance grinds on like a great machine.

(Which, perhaps, it is.)