Dearest Lyonesse
It is late summer now and the days are becoming deeper
Our beach hours are becoming less frequent
Yet the East Kent light is even more perfect
Than I am ever sourced to imagine
In the coming months the beach
Will wear its austere winter’s coat
And the romance of this summer
Will be a just a fond memory
But that is not my news
My news is that of stupidity
As I have broken my phone
It is grievously injured
Awaiting I would consider
A Slow Death
It slipped out of my pocket
As I sat down and was crushed
Against the ancient pebbles
At first I thought I had damaged its facade
But I soon became aware that the plasma
(I trust that this is the right word my friend)
Had been mortally wounded
My phone now lies on the table
Which has views towards the sea
It is still functioning but its power is shallow
The absurdity of the situation
Appeals to me but I do question
Why we tend to injure
Those who are closest to us
Whether intentionally or not
Fondness
Rex