how easily you overlook the 1st of march in croyde

there’s a blackbird in the ghost~tree.
ghost.heart at my core.

drive your tinycar
so far away with promises stapled to your reflection in the rear view mirror.
see what good it does.

.

.

.

we woke to seasounds
wrapped in eachothers scent and smiles
and the possibility of
The Most Perfect Day Ever.
Neither your silent promises or your trainers could grip the slanted rocks
as you sideways ploughed down to a foot-wet laughter pool.

.

I entered the kilns with romantic ideas in my head,
the heat and the fires of the past dampened by the smell of
urine and stale beer.
You lept light~legged through the stream, sand-spread across
the beach, laughing back at me
as I carried my shoes and splashed.
I taught you the difference between Herring gulls and Kittiwakes.

.

We sprawled on the dunes, climbed steps,
collected those skeletal tree-bones,
polished to satin by storms of salt.
we walked to a view of eternal beauty and you told me how sand-dunes were formed.
I loved you so much that I didn’t tell you I already knew.

.

We explored the ruin and spoke of the best place for a kitchen.
We had a running race.
You told me of how you felt like a true man
that summer when you laboured for your father,
rough hands and a well earned beer, aching shoulders and satisfied sleep.

.

.

Later, as the day let the tide slip away,
we ran pell-mell down silver sand dunes, arms out,
laughing, full of such a pure happiness that the world turned inside us.
That was the moment that tattooed my heart.

.

.

I told you that I loved the sea
and you

.

.

now you are in Bath, that city of sandstone and wide pavements.
You will pay for your black coffee, two sugars or hot chocolate if
your hands are cold.
I do not know what she will have, but you.
The Most Perfect Day swirled into your drink with a silver spoon
and your dreams of a family balanced precariously on her eye lashes.

.

.

.

~ by Beeskiffle on November 29, 2008.