As a young boy back in the early '60s I was aware of the impending sense of doom triggered by the Cuba missile crisis. There was one frightening week-end in October 1962 when everyone thought that nuclear war was inevitable. Fortunately, the super-powers pulled back from the brink on the eve of destruction and I was able to finish reading Neville Shute's On The Beach - but I still remember a nightmare I had at the time. It was so vivid that it's remained fresh in memory for half a century and I've tried to capture its essence in this week's poem.
By the way, if you've not encountered Michael Dobbs' brilliant investigative analysis of the Cuba missile crisis, One Minute To Midnight [Random House, 2009], the truth is more gripping than many a work of fiction.
On The Beach Slow-motion quiet seemed to hang upon us all, the lull before the storm… then everyone was running with silent screams and panic in their eyes as a thousand sun-like beachballs came burning through the skies and hissed into the sea. I knew it was a dream and tried to wake but, failing, I dreamt on. Down on the sand, part of a crowd but quite alone, I headed for the shore not knowing where to go or why. The pillars of the pier were black; we huddled inbetwixt in trembling shock, clustered, sorry figures at the farthest margin of the land. Cloaked in a creeping, choking, caustic mist, we stood entrapped in blank despair: behind, an endless stream of stumbling bodies jostled to the shore; before, the poisoned tide relentlessly rolled in, while overhead flew frenzied seagulls screeching ‘nevermore’.
Thanks for reading. I wish you a good week-end. S Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
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