[lit-ideas] Re: SUNDAY POEM

A short walk from Stephen's house,
all bloomed white.
It was heavenly. 
Just off the sound,
one foot on the beach,
I stood at the bottom of a stairway
feeling wild as Wallace.
I looked suddenly up.
Nature was shouting in lacy bloom,
but leaning over, close,
like aunts in a childhood room.
The tide behind me,
running away,
left boulders to bump the mud,
and weed sucking in the sun.
I noted golf balls scattered
where they had fallen when some
fool beat them 
from an English patch of grass above
into the innocent sea.
What's left?
Only the Proustian smell
of public staircase--
cheeky cowslip, 
with a resonant back-note of wee.

David Ritchie
returned to
Portland, Oregon



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