Larkinland on the beach ...

I'm at Knoll Beach - I'm walking barefoot on cold ribbed sand - dark scalps of seaweed have been cast up by the waves - 

Away from the sea's edge, the sand is fine and wind blown - behind me are dunes and mazy paths through knee high heather -  

I find a small shell, and marvel at its shape and feel - it's like finding a perfect word or image for a poem - 

I think about Philip Larkin - 

I watched Larkinland on BBC 4 last night - 

A N Wilson spoke about the poet - 

There he was, Philip Larkin, looking at the world with his intense wounded gaze - 

I remember how my dad used to recite Days - 

Back then he read The Listener and The New Statesman - 

Now it's breeze blocks by James Patterson that lie upon the nest of tables - 

I'll listen to some Bechet, I think, when I get home - 

I'll think of the poet dancing awkwardly to Basin Street Blues or I Can't Get Started - 

I'll not think of him waking up, very early in the morning, unmanned and wretched, watching the wardrobe swim out of the dark - 

14.45

Monday 12 October 2015

Knoll Beach

Studland 

Dorset