The end of it

 A dense, turgid, close evening. Thick with metaphor and pent up long expected electricity punching the air.
As the downpour washes away memory, leaving nothing but doubt that this summer ever existed.
And one bruised, over ripe, peach in the bowl.

Supermodel

 

I've met many super models in my time. Each and every one was super I am sure.
Save one.
Who didn't want to do the coke thing in the Cow
but sat outside
wooly hatted
talking about trying to write
one autumn evening.

It was a long time ago but
I can remember every stitch in her green hat
and her friendliness

The only time I had something in common
with a supermodel
a supermodel who was happy
to talk about
not being a supermodel

happy to talk about doubt.

Yellow lines

Waiting

in stolen cars engine running

on yellow lines

gas syphoned from ambulances

attending the car crash of her life

sleepless

on cocaine and amphetamines

white lines

stolen from dealers and pharmacies

while she trawled medical websites

for conditions

to embelish her needs

and lies

and litter her love songs

sung

from the beds of the brutal men she craved

to me waiting

in stolen cars engine running

on yellow lines

Roller Coaster.

And sometimes once voiced
apology becomes futile and pointless
understanding is all
what will be will be

nothing will break our hearts
something might mend them

the steep learning curves
of your roller coaster are
thrilling, quite frightening
and very, very new.

I went up to the roof in the rain
picked a passion fruit flower from the vine
laid it before you, an apology.
It sits unwanted on the table now.

I'll put it in water
just in case.

Demons

I can give you some of my strength each day
knowing that, like blood, I will make more at night
watching you sleep free, deep and motionless
wrapped in the courage to keep your demons at bay.

Do not take all of my strength in one day
you might as well slash my throat.
Add one more
to your list of demons.

Borth. The end of it.

Be quick my aching feet
and rid this place of me
flat matt black smear of sullen land
wedged between rugged beauty
and liquid gun metal sea

the only road a stair rod of leaden hopelessness
finialled with village namesigns
umbilical from way in
giving life to a way out
that veers off, set square true
between graph paper fields of
itchy footed mobile homes
rooted in their own unhaphazard nightmares.
Towards a horizon beckoning relief

Borth beach slate grey
skid mark on the unwashed underpants of Wales
caught between a hard place
and unforgiving sea
grey upon grey upon grey upon grey
populated by innocent children, whom, having seen no better
assume that this is what life is and
gaggles of Whistler's Mothers;
arrangements of grey on black.

the tides are bullied in

hang around like a bored teenage
goth dreaming of Whitby
on his last family holiday ordeal...

then race away with glee

Of all the beauty of this Principality
what brings me here to this
to triage at the waiting room of romantic health tests
sitting, beach benched, uncandyflossed
as you walk out into the limp bara lafwr mor.

Watching and willing you to keep going
Knowing the prognosis to be terminal.

Knowing that I no longer want you in my life
nor me in this unhappy place.

In the time of Coronavirus.

She passes the window each dayPre-Raphaelite hair new penny bright catching the sun
catching my eye.
In this strange time of isolation
she is my only constant
when once it might have been

the morning ferry on the Dart,
the night-bus on Chepstow or church-bells.
she ticks away the days day in day out
heels, like halyards on idle masts, clicking on cobbles
I do not watch for her
I simply sit writing at the window that she passes
and as she passes
tick off another day happy in her constancy.

I do not know her and for that reason can imagine,
invent a life and circumstances
watching her walking in the rain
talking on a hidden telephone,
(she has an American accent),
Laughing and happy

oblivious to the drenching of her hair
perhaps to a lover caught elsewhere, planning a reunion,
a parent in New York, Agent in L.A.
or a comedienne in St Louis
practising new material for want of a live audience
Maybe there is no phone at all
she is an actress learning lines for a show that may never go on
or a schizophrenic happy in her own company

I do not know her name
I shall not give her a name of my making.
In naming something a sense of ownership sets in;
I could no more name her than name
a wild palomino or the salmon that did not rise
or the raindrops on the window.

She does not notice me
I am too old to be of any interest or threat
like a piece of street furniture, or a bicycle
chained to a railing, slowly losing it's component parts.
I am invisible and free
free to count her daily passing
marvelling at her loyalty
happy to have this constant reminder of time and place.

I will leave this house soon
and return to my home not far away
but not close enough to be on her daily route.
Perhaps I will catch sight of new penny bright hair
on Portobello Road, clumsily smile,  remember fondly,
lock-down in the time of Coronavirus.