"Under the board-walk" the man sings, his voice a sea-swept
gravel. Echoes start in me like the ripples of stone in water.
I want to sing his words to you, but fear the voice too flat and
your presence too far. I reach for the pen instead.
Ink flows more easily than the word as my mind splits between
past and present. My need to express outstrips the close of sand
over foot and the wave-splash in my ear.
The CD moves on; a blues singer strains her range, "It'll only
mean heartache for me...".
Horizon stretching out blue and mauve like the suds in my
washing-up bowl. Salt air in the vocabulary of my mind, rosemary
and eucalyptus staining reality.
Water separates from steel in the twinkle of your eye. It's
amusement the bare-foot lunacy of me in spume. I feel again your
mind's caress; the touch of your affection.
Brush of fur on skin discordant with remembrance. Tides ebb and
zephyrs slip, a clarion call to reality.
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