Hove seafront 1

The wind chills the inside of my ears
and snatches away our conversation,
wild waves roll in and over the sea wall,
the promenade is strewn thick with pebbles and debris.
At bedtime I can still taste the salt on my lips.

catkins

late january
a handful of catkins on a bare twig in the middle of the lawn
promise so much

dog

its eyes follow me up the path
but the dog on the window sill is so weirdly rigid
that I am afraid it is stuffed
what a relief when he finally barks

three years on

In the porch the glass paperweight and mosaic candle holder remain,
as does the gaudy leprechaun;
they are joined by a large stuffed yellow Minion
leaning casually against the corner of window,
a minute snow globe 
and an even more minute metal model of stonehenge,
each stone only a few millimetres high.

(revisiting an old post)

Christmas trees

after the carnage is over
moulting Christmas carcasses litter the pavement
around Sprindale Gardens

moon again

the early evening sky is a crisp cold blue
but the moon is blurry and uncertain

Smile

The bright curve of the waning moon smiles at me from the bare branches 
like the disappearing Cheshire Cat 

Saturday morning

Daughters out with their daddies;
they bring bikes with tassels, 
companionable teddies and yellow balloons.

Queue

A disconsolate line drapes itself over the railing 
that leads to the callers office door.
They are still there when I walk back four hours later.

postcard

I've found a country where it's acceptable to eat a whole plate of hummus, more than once a day. I think I'm never coming home. 
(Postcard from Jerusalem)

Lavender

up and down the paths I brush against the lavender bushes
and carry the traces with me on my skin

Missing Jacob

his name on the back of a postcard
in a child's handwriting
somehow just the way he used to write it