The cave smelled of fish and seaweed. The back wall was dry. The tide did not reach that far. The blanket and knife lay on a flat stone.
Moments
An ex-lover, later, left me this
I experiment on you when you are sleeping. Gently I squeeze your earlobe. Your breath does not speed or falter. Rise. Fall.
Finger-soft I stroke the almost hair on the nape of your neck. Your shoulders twitch and settle. Relax now.
My hand rests on the curve of your stomach. Slowly I reach through your skin and up, behind your ribs. My fingers find your soul and, softly again, I fold over a silver corner. The edges blacken and stick. You will never know why you feel tarnished on days the sun shines.
Airport 1pm: you get all sorts
The soapstar with uneven teeth checks receipts from the chemist’s. A man with moustache and a winter-weight jacket contemplates scaffolding with experience-bright eyes. John watches takeoffs, wills flight to be possible; until his mother shouts and drags him away.
Airport 7am: Gents’ toilets
Female cleaners walk past the urinals, talking brightly.
Like antelopes’ ears at the snuff of a lion, men’s ears prick up.
A downward look of dismay at the misdirected spray.
Airport 6am
Airport 6am.
Tired parents, children lose patience.
Local disbelief at prices of tea. Tourists watch sadly.
Fruit juice on white trousers.
Dancing in the sun at Glastonbury
Dancing in the sun at Glastonbury, his then girlfriend sitting on his shoulders. White t-shirt, straw hat, arms dark against the sky and flags, a camera magnet. Whooping with delight when she saw herself on the big screen, squeezing her legs tight. That night in the tent his neck was sore, red raw. It was only when they were screaming towards divorce she told him about the momentary loss of control. It was not sunburn.
I the merman
I the merman thirst for your love as you thirst for air, thirst for the touch of your warm hand against my temple.
I the merman here in this bubble live for the thought of the sunlight on my back. My hair drifts. My flat eyes look upwards, there where I saw you.
Your hand is grazing the water, the white-painted boat rocks gently as a mother’s arms. Can I touch you? Can I take you? Will you scream and struggle for a while?
The touch of your warm fist against my temple. The thrash of the water around us. The bubbles from your silent mouth, the roundness of your eyes. I release you.
I the merman thirst for your love as you thirst for air, thirst for the touch of your warm hand against my temple.
I didn’t have the heart
I looked at my phone, a black mirror at the bottom of the goldfish bowl. The fish looked at me, then in the mirror. I didn’t have the heart.
I gorged on rich writing
I gorged on rich writing, prose of the deepest dark blood chocolate smooth; sentences that wound and wound and wound me in warm velvet and fizzed and sparked as they candlelight delighted.
And then they were tapeworms and bindweed in my head.
Athletes look out at us
The athletes stand tall, pale in their colours, stare straight from their calmness towards us, eyes a challenge to one of us, to all of us, the blood-hot kick inside the cool-blooded head.
Still others stand tall, and taller still, in blue fields, on grey docks, they gaze a far distance, eyes bright with the glimpse of gold silver rainbows beyond the horizon behind us.
All are heroes, all stand tall. In their eyes there is belief. Belief in us.
