St Ives

Sea imaging turquoise, sand scrunches street corners,
after eating octopus I woke in the night dreaming of being
arrested for dodgy love affairs.

Drank red wine and ate too much chocolate, wine the colour
of oestrogen blood , so I woke at 2.am dehydrated and
scratching for my pen.

Sunny with seagulls, the child ran wild up the small hill at
the sight of so much open space, bird shit on the windows
wide lying sky, so blue, so blue.

More nightmares of past lives, hotel with a grey walled room
Grandma soothing me with little blue pills, it’s strange what
the empty mind can and will do.

Downalong East the cottages crowd jostling for more room
and there on the beach the artists strive to capture a taste
of the sea’s mirror.

Inside me lies an empty painting waiting for a glimpse of you,
I think cerulean is a colour unlike any other, I can see through
into the life of it .

Twisting the black expanse of rock, stroked with finger tips of spray
receding to the core, vast ineptitude of sky, like a blue ceramic sugar bowl
poised above our heads.

This morning the sea crashing in my head, black cymbals of decision
lovers come and go their hands entwined behind their backs, a bed of
“maybes” clutching the low tide.

Sand is the cradle of the sea, children run like storms, eroding
brain landscapes, leaving everything warm and sticky with their
passing.

Twenty years from plaited nape of hair to adult accusing stare
they swipe me with inadequacy that I have dared to live and love;
soft spoken.

Latte and the scream of seagulls, weather-beaten faces and babies
in bunny suits stand against the bar of a lunchtime pub while my head
bursts from admonishment

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