Saturday, 14 September 2013


They kept a certain intimacy, clean in line
Like the last ray on an unsheathed knife
They walked.
I wondered
At the deliberation, lifting each limb,
The arms twice – as if broken
Or attempting to deal
With the provincial numbness.
Someone told me

It accompanied existence
Stealing thick hours from that flat night.

Just listless, those plum-red gowns
And the lull of advancing feet
Perhaps they thought themselves
Candle-lit, famous
Filing back through the streets.

Two still stood
On the pier, as if on a parapet
Staring out at that drowned blue
And imagining a place different.

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