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RED HERRINGS IN THE SUNSET

High summer in Southwold will never be the same

again

Since the post-modern experience of herrings left
its stain…
Its shadow, its deeply structured memory, on the
whole party.

 

The morning started in an ordinary fashion.
The first blast of the throaty brewery hooter
shook people from their beds -
Tumbling downstairs with half-seeing eyes and
towsled heads
To find out which Harrison was on patrol in the
winding corridors of
Stradboke Road

What would the day bring? (if it’s pork & apple it must be Thursday)
What inner experience might lead to boundless external satisfactions,
Or what event generated by the Other
Would lead to personal explorations of Mary’s
delights?

Having deconstructed breakfast, we have to decide
which activity will call to us today.

Should it be a day of self denial, with no bicycle
ride
towards some post-colonial place such as
Dunwich
or
Do we respond to our hegemonic impulses and sweep all before us as we dominate the
beach
Spending several hours to choose an ice-cream

Should you be in a small smoky gathering at
Walberswick,

With the moon glittering on the water in front of you
and the sun shedding a light that is both gentle

And fierce…..

Should you see silhouetted swimmers, bathing

Whilst you savour squid, sausage, and delightful
company.

 

Should you loose yourself in a social construct,

Or the Harbour Inn.
Should you become entangled in clashing discourses,
Or find yourself outside of several glasses of
Broadside
Should you peer through the gathering gloom and

See frightening figures,
or Rollo and Shandy
You probably need another brandy.

But if the time (diachronic rather than synchronic) arrives when The Author has been displaced, and text decentred and meaning deferred,

It is probably time for bed.

 

There to turn restlessly, to listen to the Church Bells
ringing out the time.

Two, then three, four – surely no more.
and in the in between world of wake and sleep,
Memories, fantasies, wishes keep bubbling through into dreams
Not all is as it seems.

Who is that shadowy figure in the kitchen?

Finishing off the Barley Moo.

Who is it that moves quietly, noisily along the corridors

And says “So much to do, So much to do”?
Who said, as night turned further into night,

“Out of small red herrings, post modern thoughts grew”?