Cleopatra’s Barge
nostalgia, rusted
Romance has gone rotten, a brief casualty of history eroded by bad weather and unruly tides. The old gilding scraped back from tarnished memory uncovers the myth of a love boat enslaved to holidays — once painted eau de nil, now ensconced in the seafield, bows unrecognisable, passed over from time to time by migrating mackerel.
Sadly it was a drab craft, flat-bottomed, tethered to a pleasure palace raised above the sea, that wrought iron and glass arcadia, crowned by a winter garden echoing to shingle’s rasp, where rusty palms expired to the tune of parlour violins. Down the years, this indentured skiff, maid of all work, tied to sea-worn legs, became an impromptu life raft for bedraggled lovers, foolish enough to swim out in the early hours after a night of jazz at the Alhambra.
After too many storms, the hemp ropes frayed and the old barge cut loose in the direction of Cythera. Alas, the cruel gyre rocked it to death midway where it swooned at starboard slant, the swagged waves closing over as it drifted downwards to powder puff the sandy bed. It came to rest not too far from the barnacled bust of a forgotten municipal founder caged inside a lobster pot, a trophy from the student rag that once heralded a summer of love.
A year later, at the end of August, a young woman called Jacqueline, her raven hair…
