and you, hands on my breasts, kissed me. Evening of amber.

Our nightgowns lay on the floor where you fell to your knees

and became ferocious, pressed your head to my stomach,

your mouth to the red gold, the pink shadows; except

I did not see it like this at the time, but arched

my back and squeezed water from the sultry air

with my fists. Also I remember hearing, clearly

but distantly, a siren some streets away – de

da de da de da – which mingled with my own

absurd cries, so that I looked up, even then,

to see my fingers counting themselves, dancing.

A Shilling for the Sea

You get a shilling if you see it first.

You take your lover to a bar nearby, late evening,

spend it all night and still have change. If,

if it were me, if it were you, we’d drink up

and leave; screw on the beach, with my bare arse

soaked by the night-tide’s waves, your face moving

between mine and that gambler’s throw of stars.

Then we’d dress and go back to the bar, order

the same again, and who’s this whispering filthy suggestions

into my ear? My tongue in the sea slow salt wet . . .

Yes. All for a shilling, if you play that game.

Hard to Say

I asked him to give me an image for Love, something I could see,

or imagine seeing, or something that, because of the word

for its smell, would make me remember, something possible

to hear. Don’t just say love, I said, love, love, I love you.

On the way home, I thought of our love and how, lately,

I too have grown lazy in expressing it, snuggling up to you

in bed, idly murmuring those tired clichés without even thinking.

My words have been grubby confetti, faded, tacky, blown far

from the wedding feast. And so it was, with a sudden shock of love,

like a peacock flashing wide its hundred eyes, or a boy’s voice

flinging top G to the roof of an empty church, or a bottle

of French perfume knocked off the shelf, spilling into the steamy bath,

I wanted you. After the wine, the flowers I brought you drowned

in the darkening light. As we slept, we breathed their scent all night.

The Kissing Gate

After I’ve spoken to you, I walk out to the gate

at the edge of the field, watch a bird make a nonsense

of the air, and wish. This is not my landscape,

though I feel at home here, in a way, in a light

that rolls a dreg of memory around itself, spills it.

You’ll not see it now. The bird. Me at the gate. Call it

a yellowy light. There it goes, into the grass, green,

greener, going. Love holds words to itself, repeats them

till they’re smooth, sit silent on the tongue