Sun

I like seeing the morning rise
I don’t mind if you don’t

Sitting there like
what’s the point, really

Nevertheless
we were nestled against the Doric columns in silence
you fingering the tassels on my scarf

But even I feel the disparity between seeing and thinking

Whilst the colours rose,
I was mentally selecting the right words to use in a text message to my mum

You were looking up why is the sky blue? on Google
I also got a snapchat from my friend
at a club in Australia

At the same moment that the sun burst through in all its gloriousness,
a plane dirtied the sky above
and my friend screaming and drunk
on the flashing video in my hand
neon to black

Now here, now gone
the clouds settled, and I’m walking back
people holding their grubby mugs and frowning
it’s 9am

The world has forgotten the sun ever rose in the first place

In HD

I stare into the diced tomato on the shelf

I download the app,

I meet the paper faces drifting past.

Middle Meadows Walk

By the clouds, by the stars
I am enclosed

Rachmaninov lifts me from the cement below
Whispering in my cold ears
His orchestra soars
Matching my magnified heartbeat

Half way down the path
My doppelgänger shadows smirk
I fear that I’ll turn around, hands in pockets
To see my own night-time figure peering back

My dark imaginings,
The gothic moon above,
Pulsing strings and deep blue dread
Beams down in Russian black

Everything crescendos
Until I feel my keys

And see the sodium street-lamps
Guide me to my door
With their golden, unblinking eyes

Dorset

Eating raspberries
Half an hour before
you talked of your sister’s achievements

“Not that you aren’t special too!”

And something cracked
as the heartless man in the car-park
shouted an insult
at your beautiful, shaky-fingered Gran

“No, n-no, that was my fault, it – “

The Dorset clouds gathered
snickered and rained fatigue
all down your cheeks

You’re getting older
drip drip
You’re just getting older
drip drip

And a trickle of failure maybe
through the buttons of your shirt

Holding the creased paper bag
a quiet kind of melancholy softness seeping through
Her and through

your younger body standing next to Her

You, Me, Next Week

Below me, beyond clouds
a four-day morning
we’ll sleep
and we will wake

Those hours, I’ll be humming
my toes on the edge
the blanket
the mist out the window

Your profile
a Roman myth
soft as you hand me the mug
smile like a grey, soft sky

To open and breathe
black, hot, bitter
the music pours out like wine
and you,

You
resonate on my tongue.