The Victorian Pier

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.

2007, Mid-June

Arm and cigarette hang out of the bedroom window,
a half full ash tray sits on the sill with me,
you are on my bed, cross legged and thinking.
Christmas lights are draped over a smeared mirror,
dead soldiers and empty commanders on the shelf,
sixties soul and late night grooves on random,
we’re on fresh coffee and yesterdays wine,
still hungover from the last few nights.
It’s two in the morning and we have writers block,
Pan’s Labyrinth and the profiteroles are waiting.

A Painting

Crawl into the painting,
slip in between strokes,
wrap up in warm colour.
It hangs there waiting,
in a drab sitting room,
dust over its entrance,
broken bottles below.
Beauty in chemicals,
powdered still waves,
an idyllic harbour,
away from the storm.
She stands there silently,
looking out to the seven seas,
water coloured by her charm.
A face that was never painted,
a familiar soul,
with welcoming arms,
beckoning the oceans,
inviting us to escape.