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