Nestle in on Chesil Beach: a poetic review

ocb

Throughout history intertwines itself with the present

like ivy around the throat of Florence,

whilst fear spreads throughout her bones

at the threat of what is to come, looming

heavy like moons over the wedding.

Her breaths are short;

concise

like the novel itself,

dialogue measured in grams and carefully

dosed, and so the pages are tightly packed, with McEwan

rationing each sentence and each image.

The honeymoon becomes more like cracks in the pavement,

the smiles edging into frowning crescents

as words cascade from manuals and memories

past Edward’s sombre face and into Florence’s gaping eyes.

At the denouement the audience is left on a cliff,

groping for a firm rock, but there are only pebbles

from Chesil Beach, and this is not quite enough

no

to explain what happened to Ponting

in all the years that past. So we let go

and fall into the mystery

with grace.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s