The Harbourside

The Harbourside

There’s a touch of the coast in the wind,
Spoiled, momentarily by an empty packet
of ready-salted crisps.
The water is the city; layers of nights out, picnic lunches and the bones of the locals.
Immune to the smell, we sit happily on the edges, shining our legs in the momentary summer,
Casting shadows over mallards and intimidating the seagulls.
It’s an open channel to the wind, an alcove for the sun,
Sit here and feel yourself become weightless and free,
Watch it all pour out of you into the water,
Sullying the harbour but cleaning the heart.
From this height you are authority, 
From this height you are infinite.
‘Let’s swim’
 

Autumn's Prologue

Autumn's Prologue

The Bench

The Bench