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.
Copyright © Desi Gall | Year Posted 2019
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