Baltic

Was it a reproduction Of a Rothko in a book resting on his lap, A swathe of black sky over A grey sea, perhaps, That triggered it. He recalled pictures of Brutalist concrete bunkers and silos, Sinister dark steel ramps, That carried doddlebugs and V2 rockets. He relived a moment in a Museum, a Messerschmitt 109, Hanging from the ceiling Tilted at an angle Ready to dive and attack; Remembered black and white grainy WW2 photos inside an album, The fresh faced pilot and crew, Next to a Wellington back from a raid, All smiles and thumbs up. The images came to him tumbling One after the other like slides from a projector. Then he looked up, It wasn’t grey at all. As if imitating the Rothko, The cloudless sky, Floated over a calm, Cobalt blue sea. He got up from the sun bed, Dusted gold sand from his feet And headed towards The beach bar. He thought of stopping For a drink, then decided not to, The people were too noisy And the techno-music too loud, This was Sopot 2014 after all. Crossing the wooden walkway To his hotel, he saw His girlfriend. She was showing A woman an amber necklace She had bought the day before At the market. He moved closer; as the Woman held the necklace Towards the light, He noticed a dark spot on one Of the stones, It was a fly, trapped, And screaming to get out.