I carry Aberystwyth
in the threads of my coat,
in the scuffs on my boots;
the sea salt, sand swept
into the fibres.

And now I stand here
in Jardin du Luxembourg,
thinking about the bench
by the well,

I sat on looking out to sea,
watching the starlings dance,
while considering the possibility
of perhaps, one-day, maybe
living in Paris.

After a long day of
getting lost in the rain;
turning wrong instead of right,
wrong instead of left;
somehow always seeing that same
cafe over and over and over again.

Cold hands grip the corners.
Pacing round this grey city,
glancing at street signs inconspicuously;
pretending not to be new.

The blues pull on the resolutions
till they’re broken by the spring
sunshine which finds
all the things January lost.

Euphoria of returning to
the old seaside cocoon.
The place of change and shift
of heart and mind,
and tide which
pushed the town
right back
in January.

The next day we looked out at the promenade
in pieces like an emptied out jigsaw box
but cheered for postponed exams
so we could cherish important things,
like a night out at the Pier, and long talks.

Returning back
finding it’s still
just the same
as the train parts
through the hills
and forward
to the dead end
that began it all.

Icy gusts of wind,
howling, pushing,
through over the earth,
burning faces, rippling
the trees, moulding
the season, the leaves
fall like droplets of fire
caught in spirals.

Dark mountains and
stalactite tears
blending into cave
marks on the wall.
A funeral? But
warmth and belonging
and a community
of travel, hope, legacy.
Footprints on the ground.

You hide behind
knowledge like
a shield you

feel stronger
when you know
the answers,

when you know
the answers,
when you know.

When you mistake bugs
crawling on a white, blank sheet
for ink blots, or dark stains,

It's just like when the stars
you see in the pitch black sky
move, and turn into planes.