The longer the sun is in the sky,
the longer you are not here.
When the world is dark from end to end,
the hills shoulder-firm against the rising of the light,
the space where you are not is dull.
But in the light,
shadows sharp-lined across the floor and sheets,
the emptiness is marked.
Though hope may be,
you lack.
sun arrows down from cloudless skies
winter wind bringing ice to skin
in the distance the hill burns
Walk into the woods with me
There is no path but there is sunlight and shadow
Later we can decide
If we will ever walk out again
sea horizon breaks
rose sun above snowed mountains
warms powder white sand
midday sun scorching
a monotony of waves
in shade sleep and dream
last swim draws shivers
last light falls behind the pines
love slowly sinking
holidays must end
friendship, sun, hope packed away
next year, yes, next year
Imagine a day when someone takes you home from the sea, salt sun scorched, and you sleep and you are woken with watermelon to slake your thirst.
Remember that day when someone took you home from the sea, salt sun scorched, and you slept and you were woken with watermelon to slake your thirst.
summer afternoon
sea-fresh skin on scorched salt skin
summer evening, night
To the cliff divers, scars on ankles and legs are badges of honour. The razor-sharp rocks take their toll, a thread of blood through clear water sniffed up by the eels and sea spirits.
Yesterday Marco wavered in his concentration. When he pulls himself back up to the ledge, a vein or a muscle in his neck twitches. Blood flows from his shoulder. Leon 2012. Only part of his oldest tattoo can be seen but his brother is never forgotten. His memory is in Marco’s hot, scarred heart, his name inked into his skin.
I cannot bring to mind my dream from yesterday
though I know that it must run its course
before I begin anew.
I close my eyes in the mid-afternoon shade.
Smoke-like curtains of rain sweep across the Forth, stopping short of the sand. People frown across at Fife, exchange worried glances. Buggies are turned away from the wind. Men in kilts have their Marilyn moments. Chips catch sand. Ice cream drips onto woollen gloves. And then the rain arrives.
