The walk.


The swans woolly bugle funnels up the river to the idle North Sea ships waiting out the lull. Orange curtains twitch, brick chimneys lean into a wind that blatters the outhouse doors. Unhinging. Passing by a conversation, ‘You never tell me anything’, she says. ‘Ask me anything, I don’t have secrets’, he says, holding out his arms. Mudlarking. Under the bridge a cuttlefish bone gleams amongst bladderwrack while in fields above the town the red ploughed earth skewls toward a warming spring sun.

The Close.



Wednesday. A heron ghosts the line between sea and shore. Seagulls, police sirens, staccato, contrapuntal. The substation hums. Memories rise and fall, in and out. Dangerous currents, fragile roof, a smashed pine wardrobe lies dismembered in a front garden. Short cuts across the grass, desire lines. A hyacinth flowers in a window box, Titian blue, the colour of Ariadne’s robes, painting the street in heaven and stars.