I like the waves. The way their static fizz tickles the bristles of my ears, as if they were long brown thistles in beach dunes, engirding pools of sand between the wet crevices of my toes.
I’ll lie in the bayside sheets of gold, where the clouds drift silent, encompassed by its warm fold, soaking my horse-haired brush into sand-speckled jar, painting my watercolour flowers; butter daffodils and heavens daisies.
I’ll lie on sun-dried towels beneath chequered brolly and scribble my brain into summer-kissed parchment, with leaded letters and granite words.
I’ll write in the colour of my soul, using what’s left of my heart, as I’m flayed down to the white-skinned bones that hold me upright: left thin and pale. But, for these tapestries, I find it worth my loves discounted sale.