"The sea obstinate against the land"

CRICKET AT BRIGHTON

At night the Front like coloured barley-sugar; but now

Soft blue, all soda, the air goes flat over flower-beds,

Blue railings and beaches. Below, half-painted boats, bow

Up,settle in sand, names like Moss-Rose and Dolphin

Drying up in a breeze that flicks at the ribs of the tide.

The chalk coastline folds up its wings of Beachy Head

and Worthing, fluttering white over water like brides.

Regency squares, the Pavilion, oysters and mussels and gin.

Piers like wading confectionery, esplanades of striped tulip.

Cricket began here yesterday, the air heavy, suitable
For medium-paced bowlers. Deck-chairs, though, mostly were vacant,

Faces white over startling green. Later, trains will decant

People with baskets, litter and opinions, the seaside's staple

Ingredients. To-day Langridge pushes the ball for unfussed

Singles; ladies clap from check rugs, talk to retired colonels.

On tomato-red verandas the scoring rate is discussed.

Sussex v. Lancashire, the air birded and green after rain,
Dew on syringa and cherry. Seaward the water

Is satin, pale emerald, fretted with lace at the edges,
The whole sky rinsed easy like nerves after pain.

May here is childhood, lost somewhere between and never

Recovered, but again moved nearer, as a lever
Turned on the pier flickers the Past into pictures.

A time of immediacy, optimism, without stricture.

Postcards and bathing-machines and old prints.
Something comes back, the inkling, the momentary hint
Of what we had wanted to be, though differently now,

For the conditions are different and what we had wanted

We wanted as we were then, without conscience, unhaunted,

And given the chance must refuse to want it again,
Only, occasionally, we escape, we return where we were:

Watching cricket at Brighton, Cornford bowling through sea-scented air.

INHERITANCE

This which I write now

Was written years ago

Before my birth

In the features of my father.

It was stamped

In the rock formations

West of my hometown.

Not I write,

But, perhaps William Bruce
Cooper.

Perhaps here is his hand

Well articled to his trade.

Then though my words

Hit out

An ebullition from

City or flower,

There not my faith,

These the paint

Smeared upon

The inarticulate,

The salt-crusted sea-boot,

The red-eyed mackerel,

The plate shining with herring,

And many men,

Seamen and craftsmen and curers,

And behind them

The protest of hundreds of years,

The sea obstinate against the land.

NUNHEAD

I walked with you down Linden Grove,

next to the Victorian metal railings,

and stopped at the cemetery gates.

Defying the expectations of age

we ran inside.

Nature had overcome collapsed angels.

All was wild.

You fell 

and slowly submerged into the flowers.

I thought of a higher place, 

of Highgate and of Heaven.