What mystery magician presents
such liquid night? The town asleep,
cerulean bathed. Colour confluence
to make hieroglyph of sky, white
whirligigs with buttery pulses,
spirits in hurried conversation swim
through reeds of cobalt, past tall
cypress flame, black cloaked nuisance. This
and banana moon, cocked grin
awake but silent as dreams of people
drift like sapphire ribbons.

at what point did we shed
our skins, drunkenly flutter from young
to young adulthood.

can't get it back. it's like catching
snow, blank and gone before morning
but we'll keep our eyes open

even in the mist for
a glitch, a blur of our former selves
in a shadow, a guttural voice, maybe

your own that says 'when will you
move on from this.' Oh your tears
don't taste the same now but

the television's still on.

tourists with cider
avoid sludgy leftovers

  briny exhalations
  of the unknown undulations

   sun-pecked - wrinkled as though
   Christmas wrapping

   sand slobber
   up to a young girl's toes

  left its fluorescent residue
  as hairstyles for rocks

water's unravelled applause
where dogs aren't allowed

splash into it -
   blue raspberry universe,
sugar stars skin-drizzle
   a frisson - you generate
  
a thousand deliriums,
   delectable therapy,
web-caught but purified
   by bubblegum ellipses -

a secret (let's keep it),
   a fantasy I dare
not name as I taste
   the alphabet on your tongue -

As I wait for my name
to be called, it starts
to rain. Slowly,

stuttering at first
but then a downpour,
thick grey sheets

hammering onto the windows,
as though the whole building
is being peppered

with paintballs. A woman no older
than me enters, her coat slippery
with the sky's remains,

blue umbrella like
a dishevelled animal. The receptionist
says 'you poor thing.'

I wonder how many times
she'll say that today. The doctor
asks for me. He's running late.

Ten years on, he left flowers where
she rests. Said the same as he's said
every year since.

When his eyes stopped stinging
he came home, fed the cat,
pulled the old green motor

out from the shed, began
swimming the lawn. She would be
on the bench now with a lemonade

and one of those puzzles she liked
to do. An ordinary afternoon, and if
she got stuck, he'd silence the machine.

Again he is raking the leaves -
flimsy rusted shapes
made slick by more rain -

One of the local boys walks past -
raises a hand in
a muteless greeting

and the raker holds
a gloved palm up in return
and wonders if his former

schoolteachers are still
living. They would be a century
old now, if not more.