RED FLIP FLOPS

I recall walking out there,

the tide high, the English Channel choppy,

it's southerly winds pushing me back

as if denying access to Hurst Castle -

demonstration of Nature's superior power.

Sudden doubt. 

My last memory 

of my red flip flops, traversing the shingle spit.

I was staring at the distant castle, I guess.

An intrepid explorer full of fervour: me, 

but without my agoraphobic handicap.

Just me and the sharp pebbles, a conscious union -

as if my rapidly disintegrating, unsuitable footwear

represented the will of stone consciousness,

was the monument's entry requirement.

My cut and bruised feet

a symbol of pilgrimage,

a wordless but satisfying communication

with the shingle.

Offering my blood, for the thin tongue

of the spit to devour hungrily.

A sacrifice,

it's significance way beyond my comprehension

at the time, but filed in memory's archive

for later interpretation. It was like

primitive man trying to decipher

modern mathematics.

Impossible.

As I finally achieved the Grail of my quest,

it's mystique brought effective analgesia

to mutilated feet...I was utterly enthralled.

It was well worth the pain.

Perhaps it is merely an old structure to most,

too lost in time to make it relevant today.

But to me it was alive, was crowded

with all those who'd dwelt within it's walls

down the centuries - and, of course,

it's most famous prisoner:

the Cavalier figurehead, Charles I.

Oh how dashing a character,

in white lace and frills - I

watched, spellbound, as he crossed

the courtyard as far as the barred gate

and then vanished into thin air.

Was I spooked?

Far from it.

All I could think of was the excruciating shame

of being in the presence of Royalty

at the very moment my flip flops, much beloved,

finally fell apart! 😉