So this is how British Summertime begins;
sharing a bed for the first time
with a man I've known nearly all my adult life.
We've lost an hour. Both of us.
Just like that. Overnight.
Buffeted by salty spume,
I stand on the edge and gaze
longingly into the tidal void.
The chimes of the arcade bells
and the scent of the candyfloss hold no appeal for me today.
Is it so terribly wrong I wonder
to walk streets and visit places you once walked and visited together?
To enfold yourself in the memories they conjure
and just... ponder for a while?
So this is how British Summertime begins.
Her presence clings to me like a fine mist.
Or maybe should that should be "a cold sweat"?
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