Exposed
Stopping at rush-hour traffic-lights,
the usual fleeting blur comes sharply
into focus –
a series of freeze-frame cameos
of life lived on-the-run.
Taut profiles – engaged in multi-tasking -
milking moments for all they are worth
rehearsing sales-talk, snatching a kiss
does it have to be like this?
Jockeying for pole-position,
white-knuckle grip on steering-wheel –
juggling revs with brake and gear,
concentrating very hard
on being anywhere but here.
Catching the crumbs that they can grab -
internal combustion of lives laid bare
with each accelerator stab.
Interlude
I’m leaning on the rust-flaked stern-rail,
gazing back across the waters,
taking one last gulp of the island.
Hypnotised by the turbulent wake
as it dances trailing fragments of home
towards a vanishing-point.
The mode of travel is the key.
No sudden wrench of wheels off tarmac –
premature cutting of umbilicals
arriving before you had the chance
to fully leave –
with baggage and soul becoming lost
somewhere en-route.
This process needs a more gradual form
of movement -
one that allows you the time and space
to remember the voices and the songs -
savour each of them once more,
unlocking meaning in their depths –
hugging them close for the lonely times.
It’s just a pause in the conversation
until you go back again.
Sleeping at the Beach
In the open concrete shelter,
framed by walls of saffron lichen,
and the overlapping splashes
of gaudy love and hate graffiti,
the amorphous pile of rags
upon the slatted wooden bench
is human.
To sprawl at such a crazy angle
without breaking –
to snatch what passes for a night of rest
amongst the screeching gulls
requires a total slackening
and numbness –
something he can only get
from his last remaining friend.
