Upon this trip to Weston-Super-Mare,
in the damp underarm shock of glittering sunshine, with our wet crotch strides on newly laid concourse we squelch towards a mud flattened horizon. Desperate are we, for holiday fun, restroom relief and stretching out to meet any breeze we are taken afresh by an incoming brown-blue sea swell until, yes, we find refurbishment in a sticky-sweet cafe serving ‘cream-teas for the four a we.’
And watching our Belizian friends mop scone crumbs through fingers and thumb to the full swill of tea dregs to napkin wafts and contented breath, I could not resist floating my mind back to my more distant, less pleasing memories of this sea side idyll.
Past times when Weston was worn out in Novembers drabness, when I related to this place as merely an extension to my a job of work, to the tiredness within the visiting form filling for older folk in Nursing Homes, stranded in Beech lawns and Happy Landings, and for others ailing while I sat appraising their rehab journeys in grand a week placements like Broadway Lodge.
The respite for others was invariably good, even though I, in my personal space was not.
Remembered times, blandly eating lunch from the steamed car window while staring out at the wooden pier that bled neon light into greying sky as metal detecting men in raincoats battled the wind and litter to ply their trade upon the endless expanse of mud, hopeful of becoming the news of the next treasure trove haul.
These fleeting reminiscences, sinking my heart within such a sparkling, hot and humidly happy day, pulsed forth a sadness that was beaten away by the chatter about the heat and the lack of sweat rags, and our thick socks and tired foot bottoms and the too fast melt of butter cream and the up-coming joys of crazy golf.
Memories so quickly risen up and gone. Sunken illusions that sprout historical self doubt.
And now, at home, pondering and pawing anew through my overlarge pile of hand written diaries, I at last find a poem that captured those feelings, those experiences, that distantly washed out Weston of my past. There (and now presented here) is a testament to how life flows, how transient even the deepest exhaustion is, how the past seven years has unseen the release of my clinging self…
there are donkeys on Weston beach
that wade through dreams of sea
and gold on sands and Geiger-count
the penny falls and vinegar drips
from salting pier and cash-back hands
like mud caked bats decoding waves
they strain the pips from tops of beer
and swoop on prey that resonate
in shaking cans and shell suite ear
while stranded addicts chemical dodge
and beg for change from rehab Lodge
where sharing booze and chips and pin
confound the hope of giving in to a clean
and dried out Weston
and on Beached Lawns beside the prom
the 99’s varicose and wait in vain
for nursing shade and kingdom come
licked and flaked skin by skin
by the super-glare encased within
the blue blue rinse of Weston.
Fifth Mindfulness Training: Nourishment and Healing:
‘…I will practice coming back to the present moment to be in touch with the refreshing , healing and nourishing elements in me and around me, not letting regrets and sorrows drag me back into the past nor letting anxieties, fear or craving pull me out of the present moment.’