I tried to tell the sea what I was thinking.
It simply unfurled its blue vowels at me,
a slippery blush at my feet.
   So I asked again; a similar response,
cauldron of murmurs into nothing.

Close by, a dog followed its owner,
a lady, lobbing a tennis ball,
the animal a black exclamation.
It panted excitement at me,
pink ribbon tongue sloshing about
like the sea when it sidles
back to where it came.

I asked, once more; there was no reply.
A glossy breath,
in and out, like all of us.

I.

fingers are ready
for numerous unwrappings
disposed colour clumps

---

II.

blink-and-miss applause
******* snap jokes tumble out
steam quivers on up

---

III.

everything exposed
fairy lights still flickering
night unrolls black tongue

And when you say love,
as if the first chilled sip of champagne slapping your tongue,
I know you know I know. You, thinking of summer walks
in the park with a pet we'll soon own, a whisky sunset
and a John Legend song, strawberries half-licked
in molten chocolate. We'll kiss - fireworks.
*** to make us sweat.

I smile, because what else would I do?
I think of bags for life sleeping beneath the eyes,
black apostrophe hairs on the brink of the sink.
Perhaps splashes of blood on the sheets, scrunched stomach,
arguments that sprint out our mouths,
temporary electrocutions.
We'll kiss - loose knot. *** to make us fret.

waterfalls
   petrified

frozen chalk
   bubble blossom

minerals slink
   between feet

white shoelaces
   milky squiggles

liquid emeralds
   clotted cream puddles

spread of forest
   green margarine

rinsed in sun
   Mexican memento

Old school, gymnasium, Christmas fair, Thursday night.
Hoops at either end. Tables. People. A woman carries a baby,
could be the PE teacher’s. A Ugandan flag. Jars of dark purple
jam next to jars of chutney, perhaps. The youth, us once,
flit between here and the hall. A choir, maybe thirty strong,
sing Santa Baby. Parents watch, as do we. Half a minute.

The head. Still a towering, suited figure. Handshakes all round.
What are we doing now? Voices like knots of consonants.
Geography man. Flecks of grey stubble. Procedure repeated.
Finger pointed. Scrabble for a surname. Exclamation.
Years rattling back to the front. He remembers, as do we.
Head of sixth seven years ago. Instant recognition. Repeat.

Half an hour. The place, no longer ours. Never was.
Friends the same. Memories. Dust between dark and light.
Car. Back seat. Barely two miles. Little traffic. Turn
into street.  Step out. Chill drizzles the face. Handshake
again? Again. Time and place discussed before home.
See you tomorrow then. Yeah. Yeah. Front door key.

my head
must be
the boiling kettle

my voice
a series of stuttering
tufts of steam

my god
I think of you
as some sort of sun

my dreams
tell me so
they can't be wrong

The wallpaper in your grandmother’s front room
is appalling. Old bible yellow pages,
bevy of bubbles joining,
thickening like arteries beneath the surface.

And what is that? The daily brain teaser,
printed patio of letters.
Five down - ‘state of being alone’.
I think I know it. I am sure of it.
Pack of hard-boiled molar-breakers covers the rest.

I do not know why
you have brought me here.
We stand like soundless instruments.
Wrenched from bed so had to dress,
brush my lips ******, rake my hair.
Presentable? Presentable.

Your gran, almost ninety, concrete
cracks lightning strike on the cheeks,
specific smell that comes
with the accumulation of decades.
She does not know me, will forget me.

Syllables will stagger out
from the mouth, words, whole sentences
watery or gone. Instant evaporation.
A shuffle. And another shuffle.
A loudening shuffle.

Enter. Oh, how sorry I feel!
Hands quiver as frightened leaves,
cup quickstepping on the saucer.
You dash over, take control,
steady the shake of brick-ish tea.

My name comes, tinged with a lisp.
Your grandmother looks at me
with her eyes, jelly-rolled marbles,
a smile creaking across her face.
You know it. I know it. She knows it.
A woman caught in the icy fist of winter.

She sits. Sighs. I know the feeling.
I bend down, say slowly,
enunciate clearly.
Solitude.
Five down, my dear? Yes, correct.