It’s a saunter, a wander not seen on earth,
blinking is no longer necessary here,
blank stares adorn those who still have eyes.
Lingering in lifeboats accompanied by a lantern,
some are found under the water, drifting,
an armada of souls sailing for now and forever.
Boundaries always move, catching them off guard,
walking for miles then hitting a white wall,
take ten steps to the right and there’s another.
Lost in the cracks between rhyme and reason,
relics of a period that will never happen,
an endless search for a familiar place.
Good morning crisp winter,
it’s time to give birth to your ghosts
out of my mouth.
An ambient embrace out of control,
you are harsh this year.
Sauntering on the planks,
boats out at sea,
umbrella in my hand,
the grey hanging high.
An old pebble beach,
strolling along the esplanade,
admiring the Italian gardens,
Victorian splendour in autumn.
Holes in my shoes,
the smell of rust,
the smell of salt,
waves dance below us.
Fishermen in the drizzle,
the Pavilion’s history echoes,
empty benches seat ghosts,
the pier their host.