Brighton
A little smoke in the pebbles and a dip in the strait
The white cliffs of Dover just around the bend
I could all but hear the souls skimming across that wide stretch of water
From the western front
Limping home to find their lovers’ arms long gone
Their mothers’ breasts long buried, their fathers’ reproaches all but hoary whispers
The chalk dried on our faces
And the hot sun and cold iceblocks reddened our lips
We looked like clowns
…acted like it, too
If on the way down our skin stuck to the fake leather seats, clammy with the sweat of summer
We washed that off when we dove for sunk Spitfires
Then as dusk dawned we played eye-hockey with a couple of girls
A bus load of Indians arrived, too
Late but eager
Can’t say we welcomed the translucent dags and all that clamour, but their fun was infectious
As they took religiously to water, just like ducks, or virgins
That we could reprise this song
Sing it till our end of days, whistling all along
