Holiday romance.

A true story... There is nothing like an older woman in a man's shirt.




We talked of red roses
We talked of Sorrento
While the other boys drank to their pledge

We walked to the beacon
The out at the beacon
Held hands and went to the edge

We talked of red roses
We talked of Sorrento

She told me she loved me
I told her my fears
We talked of red roses
We talked of Sorrento

Her name was Polly Anne
The same as my sister
Which smacked of incest
Every time that I kissed her

On the well rounded bottom
Of an overturned inflatable
And all was in reach
But how far was debateable

Down there
Down on the beach
Under a man’s checked shirt

We talked of red roses
We talked of Sorrento
We parted agreeing
No further contact was best

She wrote of red roses
She wrote of Sorrento

She wrote of red roses
On a card from Sorrento

Without a return address.

The impact of airfreight on the poet.

I wrote this last summer for Port Eliot Festival.






The impact of airfreight on the poet.

Once, long ago
it would be enough to say
that we ate strawberries
she and I and you would know
That she was beautiful in her summer frock
eyes the colour of cornflowers
Hair of course
ripe wheat

The summer heat sang
swallows flew low
smell of new mown grass
rosemary
lavender
and a jamjar to trap the wasps in.

Now
thanks to airfreight
if I were to tell you
that we ate strawberries
she and I
you would have no fucking clue
as to the season or our whereabouts

We could be in the Ikea cafe
in December
for all you know
Thanks to airfreight.

This poet will
if longevity allows
scream with joy
on hearing the news
that the last drop of oil
has been sucked
from beneath his summer lawn.

And it will
once again be enough
to say:

We ate strawberries
she and I and you would know.