cormorant. celestia. a neighbour’s budding magnolia.
fuzz, tepal, whorl. waiting for april, all
of them. or early may.
well. i am too. petals falling to the pavement on a springtime day.
i close the rusty garden gate. it swings shut behind me.
the steps to the beach are steep and mossy.
i’m the sort of person that sees signs everywhere.
spirit, salt, sailor. a compass on the pavement. sacred, sacred, sacred,
and why shouldn’t i believe in magic?
the Grand Hotel is grey and ghostly
with its tearooms and towers and spiral staircases. disused, mostly.
i’ve a fondness for near-forgotten, or faded places.
there’s a rainbow over the railway bridge.
i make it to the beach,
and the wind is sweeping seaweed like it’s tumbling russian thistle
and i’m watching waves crashing and exploring little rock-pools,
i’m looking for crabs, sea glass, oyster shells too
(a pearl or a chest or a leviathan or two)
but there are three men, better prepared than me, with a metal detector,
i suspect they’ve stolen all the treasure,
and the sunlight’s bouncing off the water.
so i give up. skip stones on the sea.
i never learnt to throw them properly. they immediately sink.
i think a storm is blowing in.