Beachy Head
Karen Ironside
Ironside’s creative flow is captivated through her pieces Beachy Head, School Reunion, Sea View, Collective Nouns and others. We are given an insight into Ironside’s perspective of the world; in the form of day-to-day life, as well as through her interpretation of the natural beauty encompassed by the sea.
Beachy Head
Look down at the chalk,
see how white it is, how
pure, soft sediment once
submerged in protective
waters, free from sand
and silty imperfections. Edge
closer, look again, flint
lacerates the layers,
each returning tide
exposes and erodes
until the fractured
façade cracks and
skeletal
remains
fall
in
pieces
to rest on the sea floor.
School reunion
We assemble in the hall
at seven, prayers unsaid,
judgement dispensed
in tumblers of Prosecco.
Shuffling for recognition,
unfamiliar faces mirror
gravity and reaped
decades surround hips.
Our shared history is secured
to a board with Blu-tack,
uniformly grey, we smile
at ourselves smiling back.
The passed have been enlarged,
everyday photo paper, glossy.
For a moment we remember,
with canapés from the Co-op.
Then I see you, beaming,
in the shadow of the bars
where the ropes used to
hang, a pixelated reminder
of an imagined future.
Sea view
He sits motionless
guardsman straight
on discoloured bench
gnawed by south-westerlies.
A lone Adonis blue flitters
through an explosion
of dropwort white
rooted in chalky down.
Passing cumulus
momentarily
conceal wave crests
which rear up excitedly
as pearly shards of light
energise the Channel,
silhouetted trawlers chop east
looking for brill.
He stirs,
so slightly,
fingertips touching, inhaling
deeply,
salt spray
speckles his lips,
a trace of wild thyme
caresses his throat.
Gulls nearing
resoundingly
cry rain.
He sighs,
his Labrador
rises to leave,
sensing,
without words.
Collective Nouns
An aggression of drivers
queue at barriers
where road crosses racecourse,
for the 3:20 auction stakes,
three-year-olds and upwards.
In adjacent fields, sheep stop
snacking, to convene
for a better view, past
shrouded caravans,
propped by bricks,
a shadow of van dwellers
concealed by threadbare curtains.
Out of sight,
the race start is announced
by shuddering ground.
An obesity of happy meal
cartons dance in the gutter
as a blur of thoroughbreds
muscle over Wilson Avenue,
led by Collective Nouns,
a stride away
from home.
Road reopened,
traffic steers clear,
sheep resume disinterest.
Scenes from Brighton beach
1.
Silhouettes stretch
on umbilical boards,
aimed at the horizon,
arms paddling,
ready to turn, allegro,
wake the day.
2.
Kids drip
ice
cream,
a woman flip-flops
around her beached partner,
prone on his back,
years of beer spill
over his Speedos.
Basted in cream, he roasts,
she’ll serve him with chips
later in the day.
3.
Herring gulls argue
about takeaway carcasses,
mouthing salt and vinegar.
Palace pier
radiates fizzing shingle,
advancing water
spews out its human cocktail,
swallowing another day.
Blue
He loves ultramarine blue,
essence of open water,
yes, it can be grey
or lavender,
soft viridian,
but ultramarine
makes shadows,
reflections between waves,
creates energy in the sea.
My childhood walls
were decked with seascapes,
glimpses of chalk,
arches, stacks,
sweeping empty beaches,
but mostly a watery expanse,
a cold bluish hue.
He’s animated,
mixing colours,
his lifetime adventure.
He smiles at me,
beckons to his easel,
the sea,
a mix of earthy yellows,
flecks of cadmium red.
Harsh words
To clear my head and rid the verbal clutter,
I loaded my vernacular and proceeded to the tip.
Splitting woody words from tinny ones,
I bagged everything acidic
for later safe disposal.
Foul and abusive language was not tolerated
so I had to take it back.
Metaphors recycled,
I dropped citations
in the bucket for quotations as I left.
The clean and virtually new
I donated to charity,
with a little French bric-à-brac
before heading home.
I placed your harsh words
silently in the dishwasher,
and fed the kids
toast and Alphabetti Spaghetti.
Shingle
On days leaden mist
cloaks the horizon
step barefoot on shingle
let stones sting your soles
jump down steep inclines
to chattering cold seas
walk in raw water
‘til you can’t feel your toes
let seaweed coil tightly
cling to your skin
pick shells for their sharpness
clutch in wet hands
wait for the tide
to ebb,
unfurl.
On days leaden mist
cloaks the horizon
step barefoot on shingle
until you find sand.
