A week and a day in St Tropez

with her bright yellow coat
and black shiny bag
she was waspish.

she buzzed and fussed,
pink gin in hand, her
sparkly phone vibrating.

she was electric. eclectic.
wonderfully eccentric.
i fell instantly in love with her.

we eloped to st tropez.
it lasted a week and a day.
then she left with a beatnik.

his name was george.
he played guitar, tantrically.
i went home to my mum, despondently.

i never saw her again.
i don’t even know her name.
the waspish girl with the yellow coat, black shiny bag and sparkly phone.

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bilberry picking

the moor sleeps.
bogweed and heather topped.
mist rolls over her like cream floating on coffee.

footsteps bounce
on marshmallow sponge.
the turf drinks deeply when it rains.

a chink of sun
flutters amongst the bilberries,
as pickers, fingers blue with juice, warm up.

my pail is full.
overflowing with super berries, jewelled with dew.
my tummy is plump. i’ve eaten as many as i’ve picked for you.

my steps are heavy.
the sucking peat bites. i hike back to car and home. 
leaving the moor to forget me and sleep fitfully alone.

Popping fish bubbles

i live by the river.
we nap together
and hang out
with the cool breeze
that ruffles
and cools our skin.

she is an old lady.
pocked and scarred.
we share our age
and rage about
anti-ageing creams
and flimsy dreams.

snake oil.

she is gentle.
caressing her banks
with nimble fingers,
but when she cracks
she BEATS AND SMACKS
LIKE A MANIAC!

each day is different,
down by the river.
as squirrels whirl
in the trees above
there are fish bubbles to pop
atop her rippling back
as mallards cruise by
and noisily quack.

she is older than me.
wiser. full of history,
full of stories
of life and death and hope.
she is taken for granted
but she shrugs
and carries on,
and as night falls
she whispers and sings
the most delicious of songs.

the day the shit hit the fan

tv dinners

in
tattered jeans
and
grubby vest,

he
snuggled,
squished
into
his
grubby
sofa nest.

metaphorised
into the fabric.
they became as one.

he hugged
a bottle
of vodka
tight.
his lover
for tonight.

darkness came
like a blanket.
curtains drawn,
in his room.
in his mind.

keeping.outside.out.and.inside.in.

closed to the life
she chose to
leave behind.

he
aimlessly
clicked
through
tv channels,

ever
changing
images.

burning
his mind with
blame filled
vodka memories
of life the way it was
before the shit
hit the fan.

of life before the storm.

life.before.the.day.she.left.

acceptance

a well fed mouse
squeaked
and scurried.

their eyes met.
he knew this mouse.

this
friendly mouse
in his house.

his friend,
the mouse,
in their house.

this empty shell.
his private hell.

his choice
since.the.day.she.left.

tears at bedtime

after the storm,
he drowned in debt.
swam through bills,
subsisting on dreams
and vodka and pills.

sharing pizza crusts
with his pet mouse,
in this house.
this lonely house,
their house,
his home,
alone

a.prisoner.to.his.melancholia.