Poem by Alan Whitfield. Up High


Up High 

Up high.
The coast line
The drop
An island below
its emerald coat glitters gold 

The waves attack.
From the front
to the back.
Its light shines on
for lost souls.
 

The white dots are just birds
or maybe they are words
of people who went and never come back.
 

I watched euros sing.
On a path of concrete so long.
The wave crashed the chorus
breaking white before us.
 

On the edge of the world
with south stack before us.

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Author: alanwhitfield80

Hello! I get about a bit so here about me first. I am a visual artist and poet who works within the context of fine art. My work is grounded in documentary, exploring the inner beauty of everyday life through various lens based media. Notions of nostalgia and social commentary are present, but from a definite northern working class perspective. Instinctively I exploring the townscapes of North Wales and the North West, often producing work that reflects the every day minutiae of life.

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