Frieda Hughes: Here Comes The Sun
In her latest exclusive poetry column, Frieda Hughes writes from – and brings us to – the west coast of Wales
Predictions of good weather seep beneath our skin like melanin;
I heard a rumour of weekend October sun and so tore through necessary tasks
In minutes, not hours, wheeled out my motorbike and inflated the tyres.
Anticipation of the life-perspective my car crash dreams demanded
Coloured the air with evaporating nightmares. The distance between me
And the clutter of obligations that littered my house set me free:
Over coffee and this poem at a cafe table on the Aberystwyth seafront
I watched motorbikers gather for chips and a view of the water, and waited
For the ice cream queue to become less than ten. But it was never ending,
Constantly refreshed by middle-aged women walking small dogs on leads,
Mothers with pushchairs, and grey-haired men bulging out of their unzipped leathers.
A teenage girl picked large pebbles from the grit beach, one at a time,
Returning to build up her pebble fortress again and again, like a dog able to carry
Only one object. Students of all shapes, smells and sizes, mostly with indigo hair,
Lined the promenade edge, legs dangling into the air. A fly landed
On the white of my page and groomed, its tiny front feet rubbed the sides
Of its little head as it tilted like a cat, washing. Its back legs stroked each other
The way a woman moisturises her limbs to soften her skin before dating,
Or a bird slicks down its feathers with its beak before mating.
The sun had performed, its watery light was enough to pull off sweaters.