on toast

He didn’t mind the rain. It peppered him, the tiny droplets settling and disappearing into the fabric of his shirt. He noticed it. He tried feel each individual drop as it landed on his head. Not to count, but to give each one its due. It occurred to him for a moment to seek shelter. He wasn’t far from home.

It came down heavier. He sat and felt the dampness rise through the seat of his jeans. The drops lost their individuality, becoming a rhythm. A hum. Before long it was like sitting in a shower.

But with no hot water.

He raised his head towards the sky, squinting to keep the drops out his eyes. He felt them race down his face, his cheeks and chin, matting his hair to his head. He tasted it. Stuck his tongue out like a child and for a moment focused only on what hit there.

It came down heavier. He looked down and saw his flesh through his clinging, saturated shirt. Shook his head and felt the waterlogged strands of hair whip to and fro. Standing he looked skyward again. Deep, bruised clouds looked so close he could touch them.

His key stuck in the lock for a moment, then a click. He felt a drop of water on his chin dislodge and fall.

She looked at him in the doorway, cocking her head to the side. In her right hand a mug, steam lifting lazily up; in her left a plate.

He grinned at her. She shook her head and smiled back, almost a laugh.

‘Tea and toast?’

‘Yes, please. Butter and honey on the toast, please.’

pub chat

‘So.’

‘Yeah.’

‘So what’d she say?’

‘She said she’d think about it.’

He drank his pint and fiddled with the beer mat, spinning it on its corner. Everyone else’s eyes were stuck to the television. It was some manner of football final, he thought.

She didn’t touch her beer. Her hands lay on the table, her long fingers splayed wide. Her eyes touched with urgency and disbelief. Impatience.

‘Think about it? What the fuck? What does she need to think about?’

‘A lot, I guess. It’s…’

‘It’s nothing. It’s a no-brainer. Which, you know, is ideal for her.’

‘That’s a touch harsh.’

He drank again and watch her long fingers as they tapped the edge of the table. He knew she wanted a cigarette.

‘I’m going out for a fag… this conversation isn’t finished. This is just a pause. I’ll be back.’

She fished in her bag. Her dark hair fell in front of her face. She found a pack and muttered an exclamation of victory and relief. She looked up and held him in her eye.

‘This isn’t over.’

She walked out, the swing of the door mute in the noise of the pub. Someone scored and half the bar erupted. He took a sip and watched through the window as she lit up and paced.

‘It never is.’

He finished his beer and took a sip of hers.

rise

He wiggled his toes in the sand, felt the chill as the water seeped up through it. It made his bones cold, his flesh numb. He stayed.

The gulls slept in the nooks of the cliffs above. He sank in the wet sand and the tide approached until it rushed around his shins. His legs ached with the cold.

At the horizon the sun appeared, its reflection a fiery teardrop streaked across the water. The sweet stench of dying bonfire lingered. He couldn’t close his eyes. He didn’t want to. He stood and watched the sun climb out of the water.

He was alone, and missed no one.

wake-up

The warmth of the sunbeam woke him. It smothered. It felt like a blanket on his face. He opened his eyes and regretted it, squinting, flinching, he tried to block the light with his forearm. A cushion fell from the couch. He stopped and watched the dust float in the blanket of light. A few deep breaths and then he wiggled his fingers and toes, checking they were still there. His eyes closed again. The pillow took his head back and he feigned sleep. It didn’t last.

He rolled to his side and stared at the coffee table.

Three empty bottles of red wine, two white, a half-full bottle of Bacardi and an empty bottle of generic vodka littered the table.

Too many glasses to count, all grubby.

He rubbed his face, but couldn’t feel it. His lips dried shut. He stared again at the suspended dust. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

The tv behind the coffee table played mute cartoons. In front of it lay a body using a coat as a blanket.

He stared then at the floor. The carpet may have been sky blue some time, long before. Every shade of stain in every shape. Jaundiced walls. He squinted again and looked up at the window.

He didn’t know where he was.

lochside

The water lapped the rocks with a murmur. Calming, whispering; an eternal conversation that all could hear, but none understand.

She skipped a stone across the gentle waves. It hopped four times then skidded along the surface before sinking beneath. Her fingers snapped and she faked a pout.

‘I can do better you know.’

‘I know.’

The pout turned to a smile and her feet sank a bit in the sand as she looked for another skimmer. Pebbles and stones clattered as she tossed them aside, looking for that perfect smoothness.

‘I said I know. You don’t have to prove your skill to me.’

He threw a round stone, not bothering to skip. It hit the water with a satisfying plunk, echoing over the quiet conversation between the water and the rocks.

‘I know you know. And I don’t have to prove anything to you.’

He looked across the loch. The sunny haze cast a pastel filter over the mountains in the distance. He squinted, even though his sunglasses hung loose from his collar.

‘Perfect.’

She held a smooth stone up to him, grinning from ear to ear. She held it like a talisman.

He lost count of how many times it skipped. Seven or eight – somewhere around that. The sun fell behind a cloud and the hairs on his arms stood up in the breeze.

‘I can do even better.’

‘I know.’

He watched as a sailboat tacked on the opposite shore, almost indistinguishable from the wings of the gulls diving around him.

She grabbed his hand hers and kissed his cheek.

‘I know you know.’

morning wine.

She lit a cigarette without interest. The smoke joined the haze of the room. It was like sitting inside a cataract. She sipped some wine. Her glass was filthy. Handprints and lip smears of an evening’s drinking turned morning covered it. Her eyes flicked to the grey light growing at the window. Her fingers flicked the dangling ash into an empty beer bottle.

His eyes hurt. Stung by smoke and exhaustion. He sipped flat coke and cheap vodka. The bitter, oily burn brought a grimace. He put the glass down and looked among the half emptied bottles for something drinkable.

There was nothing.

She dropped her butt into the beer bottle. A small hiss escaped as it hit the dregs. She sipped her wine again and looked over at him.

‘Why is it always us?’

silent film

The hearse sits in the rain below the window. Black-clad mourners huddle, hunched, whispering memories and condolences in the shadow of the church. They hold their hats against the wind. The trees whip to-and-fro in frantic abandon, ignorant of the somber pace of those in their shadow. Children hold the hands of elders, the boys tug at their neckties while the girls straighten their dresses. They look up from time to time, towards the face of a parent, unsure.

He looks down at them, quiet. It proceeds in silence. Tendrils of wind-swept ivy scrape the window pane. He hears nothing else.

mine (edited)

it is my heart.
and it will bash against the rocks.
it will be beaten
by the torrent,
by the tumult,
by the maelstrom.
it will hurt
it will bruise
it will rend
until it tears.

but it will not break
it will not surrender
it will not lose hope

it will feel all the pain
every moment of it
battered
bruised

but it will heal
it will feel elation
it will feel love again

it is my heart
and i will not lose it.

collioure ii

The rock is layered.
The rock is jagged.
It breaks through the soil.
It cuts down to the sea.
The turquoise sea
That takes the light
From the sun
And makes it
different.

The vines cling
Perilously
To the rock.
Their roots dig deep
Searching
Splitting
Shattering
Rock and soil,
Looking for water.

The homes cling
Perilously
To the Rock.
They become villages.
Right down to the sea.

The stone sits,
Set on rock.
Perpendicular.
Layers upon layers.
Ochre, purple,
Obsidian
Pale.

collioure i

Morning and evening are coloured with pastels.
The sea, the clouds, the hills and mountains.
And the sun.
Sometimes faded, sometimes intense.
But always pastel.
Always vibrant.
Never wanting.