Gothick?

(This fellow was real, an out of place, alien in his home town).

Sallow turned milk cheeks
beneath an impossibly large funeral director’s top hat,
its satin coal-black band smudged with sugared fingerprints.
Maniacal mascara fronts resigned satisfaction
from sunken, gaunt poached egg eyes,
an undertaker safe in the perfect knowledge
that another corpse will soon arrive.
This washed out charcoal drawing, mute
propped on awkward spindle stalks, that
disappear to laceless boots, sits low
astride an empty doughnut box.

© Graham Sherwood 5/2010

Port Isaac

The milk blue swell with silver crowns
breathes a heavy sigh, to
nudge the reef of Varley Head,
beer foam swamps the Shillingstones
and roars into its craggy gugs.

Three skiffs lie beached on dog leash chains
whilst unleashed dogs, seek
piddle smells to sniff,
bored grockles peer in tiny trinket shops
and follow pasty smells around the lanes.

These silent streets keep echoes warm
The Bark House nets, the Dolphin’s ale
and ghosts of shanties whispered low
swirl around old salted stones
like chimney smoke,

© Graham Sherwood 5/2011