5. Apr, 2022

'Statues In the Sea'

On Crosby beach, a crowd has gathered.

Figures stand in sand and sea,

Facing one way, where the outlook is mostly grey.

It’s a lost child’s nightmare,

Where nobody is real, the crowd a mirage,

Each statue identical, a blind iron image

Of a single man, the sculptor.

And yet at first sight, the eye and mind translate

These static beings

Into men, woman and children on the beach,

Perspective and distance making them both

Large and small, fragile even.

They have a haunting collective solitude,

A touching humanity.

Surreal and yearning,

They are anchored in that place

And yet adrift,

As if aware there is no reason for them

Even to exist.

Ruth Enright

Overview

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Two teddies are now

Both in my keeping,

Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.

When new, Bruin was purple, larger,

With a deep growl.

My brother's.

Teddy was smaller, fawn,

Mine.

He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall

And a sink bath.

I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.

I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple

And my own ted must never know of that.

I was the oldest but the girl.

Perhaps that played into who got which bear.

Bruin is no longer purple,

Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,

At home and in his flat.

For a few years now, both have looked down from

The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.

They leaned together, slightly forward,

As if wanting to come down.

I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.

Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small

bald patches.

It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.

I felt I had let them down, the two teds,

Neglected while cherished still.

I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet

Of the single bed below,

Where they seem more contented, two old men together.

Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.