Sunday, October 24, 2010

Your Sunday Poem

This by Nick Laird from his book, "On Purpose." 

Statue of an Alerman in Devon 

You have to drive five counties
and come over the hill to Salisbury Plain,
pass the cloud-shadow grazing
on hayfields and A-Roads and grass,
and decelerate into the very last town
where a sign points to the Ice Factory,
and in front of you is sea.

You have to take the second left
to find yourself, lost, of course,
in a hamlet with one phone box
and a bare stretch where seagulls peck
at the bronze feet of an alderman
who watches, like some soul who outlived,
in the end, everyone he loved.


Spectator said...


Are you sure that this is not about an "Alon man in Los Osos" rather than an "Alerman in Devon"?

Alon Perlman said...

Oh, my name taken in Devon vain.
Alon man is no stranger to the Salisbury plain, Spectator.
He crossed it by car and train.

Closest Ocean to Salisbury is Bournemouth.
Alderman=Shades of reverse Ozmandius?
Here is something closer to you Jon. I had you in my mind’s eye.