eating ice-cream on the promenade.
you sit off to the left,
staring sunward with an arm raised above your head.
the seagulls screech,
screech with their own beauty.
the ice creams melt,
resigned to their own wanderings,
liquid and alone.
and your lips, they split storm-clouds
with the lightnings that you speak,
and all the while the sun breaks bright;
the gold shines through the grey.
we stain our mouths blue,
triumphant in the dawn,
with the ice cream quite forgotten,
washed out by now to somewhere new.