The Tourist Drive

Helena's post, with the lovely title between moons, and some even lovelier photos of a place by the sea I love so much and pictures that make me homesick for mist over the escarpment, put me in mind of this poem. And yes, whereas Helena's moon and her sea are light and blessed, mine are dark and somewhat on the cursed side. We all have our strengths.

the tourist drive

picadilly neon  was never more enticing
than this; the coast road and a full moon

bald tyres hastening , as mercury,
each new corner an invitation to speed

ninety pushing a hundred: FALLING ROCKS
DO NOT STOP an easy justification

of the suicidal evening
pale as an egg, the moon sings

from its sphere - unlovely siren,
the night's grim lorelei

who winks its one eye as if to say:
i know where you're headed

stilled, as a dead man's cries, the sea
casts its silver like a shroud -

acceleration: the taste, briefly, of air,
then salt, then salt -