Milo's Yellow Digger

Milo said, "Why's that phone got legs?"
A TV advert and we discussed it at great length.
A perfectly reasonable question as we wandered to the beach.

We fixed our patch, one towel each, in eyeshot
of family groups encamped behind boozy windbreakers.
Boys and girls took buckets and spades into no-mans-land.
Empire building. Construction. Pride on little faces. One
decided on a moat, one on the delightful anticipation of a big wave.
Each hoped for some fairness in destruction.

No one waits on a clumsy foot,
No one wanted a war to break out in the first place.
Accidents happen. The heat; a toddler, an older brother,
an argumentative sister - a slip, a kick, a stick, a disaster.
Always at the moment one wants to control the other.

You sat and watched your efforts plundered, raised to the ground.
Mothers fussing, fathers biting lip, itchy trigger-finger disputes,
and you didn't budge an inch. "What happened?"
I said to your little face, wanting to jump up
and down, on all the other towns around.

"Earthquake. Need a Yellow Digger..."
and you pulled one out of your bag,
began "Vacuation Operations..."
sent in "Ann-balances, neee-naw, Roger-
Foxtrot-Dandy. All Communication's Dead.

Look!" you said, pointing to a handy crab you'd found,
"I got the phone with legs, to run along ahead..."

Surfer's Winter Tonic

Well after riding the surf, when I wash up
on the shoreline of evening, drunk
on the refreshing keynotes in music,
you are like ice,
checking your watch, eyes to the starry sky,
your breath fanning a camp-fire burning
for the warmest brew of full bodied heat,
where you are all night my dream,
the esprit d’escalier of waves coming in.

We rise from the beach mat sheets,
your morning growl animating the verve
pulsing through the day
where you are all day my zing,
the esprit dancing in the waves coming in.

So élan vital you are – this freezing day
was an empty container, all for a full cup of you.
Your liquid thoughts spilt over last night’s blanket,
kick-start my heart racing home
to warm my hands again around the hot pepper vigour
of your simmering medicinal wine.

On Dreaming

Tonight there are petals along the corridors
to your room; candlelight leads
through a world of scent
and you are enchanted by all that is vanishing:
the bag in your hand has disappeared,
a jacket has been unhooked and peeled away,
the walls don't shudder when you walk through,
only door frames becoming metaphor and simile.
There are no moths caught translucent on a window pane.
There are no panes - bookshelves have melted,
catalogues recycled, and forms have become an idea.
The same has happened with every electrical appliance,
batteries do not exist, soft furnishings evaporate
until all that remains is wood, linen, and feathers -
the only objects on the way to an absent window
where you take my hand from under the covers,
curl around my back like a cape - and I wake,
to walk through the snowflakes with you.

Another Chardonnay

And you – my passion – breeze through
These orange curtains like you own the place,
Pad along the cool ceramic floor with fiery strides
To the bar, heating the marble, raiding cupboards,
Growling; and I’m here watching you pace;
Find the bottle, put it to your lips, and drink
Like it’s a long cold winter’s night,
Wipe your mouth, sigh through your teeth,
While here I am, smiling – fisherman’s trousers tied
Around my hips, sun blazing down on the sarong,
Skin listening to those warm sea breezes,
Listening - to a lusty blond called Chardonnay
Tell me my troubles over the rim of her glass eye.
You take another swig; slam the bottle on the bar,
Yawn, stretch like a bear, step onto the porch,
I hear you say - What a perfect name…
Strike a match on the doorframe,
Light a cigar; pick Tequila from the larder…
Chardonnay wants another spiked Pina Colada –
What a perfect name…“And you?”
I reach for the bottle, put it to my lips, and drink
Like it’s a long cold winter’s night, “Whatever
You’re having, Babe - I’ll have the same…”

Serita, I say your sari is beautiful

Serita, I say your sari is beautiful and you throw your eyes to the sky, laugh, push my shoulder, but it is a beautiful turquoise; fades of coral and frayed golden threads snag the fiery sand. Spread out on Gujarati cloth, are end of season hometown wares: spiral shells and stories, t-shirts and tales. You flick antique beads of tiger-eye around my neck, call me friend and take my hand. It fits, so.

Your jewels filigree towards me and we speak of craft; of gems; gold, metal, women and men; of the silver clasps, loops and rings, stamped by authority at home. 'Is he a good man?' I ask, and you say softly, yes. For a moment, your almond eyes have the ocean in them, the fiery sand, and when you turn to me, I can see the green flecks of your back home mountain land. You are feline, elegant, and delicate, and a survivor of lives, an astute businesswoman sat in her beautiful rags.

The shade has moved away from us. We spin the creaky palm umbrella, and a sand-sleepy tanned cow turns and yawns. "No people again today, nothing. Only families of skinny cows, and they don't want my jewels! I try to smile, and for a second, I cannot imagine you bullied by anything, except nature. You need to buy pills for your Angina, and the worry in your eye is a secret.

I feel the tourist appear in mine and look down, but you see it. "For a traveller who frowns; this tiger-eye is old antique; worn bead for Shiva, and good. You will see what you will do, and me the same. She turns a bead. It is quiet here, together. Tonight there is a fire on the beach, and tomorrow, I catch my plane. I turn a bead. "Yes, turn the bead, like that" she says, smiling.





goa

Volcan de Taburiente

from the dock, Volcan de Taburiente
opens her jaw for toy cars to load
all along The Portside Road
where we could be
· stowaways on a truck waiting to board
· a dove watching
· the anchored yacht
· bobbing the spicy evening light
where we could be
· one of a crew of two
· on The Twilight easing in from the sea
· those who leap at the Fred Olsen foghorn
· drawing curtains on shutters
· port to starboard smiles
· resting
· forgetting to go ashore
where I am, upside down
taking these photographs to send you
where we could be
· in a blink of an eye on a cruise ship lit
· like a chandelier constellation
when a squint makes glitterballs and ballrooms pulse
· right-way-up no brighter than Mars or Venus
or where my gaze comes to rest
on the one candle wavering below the waist of the deck
for a woman climbing the galley room steps
· studying a map of stars.


*

She dives like Geena Davis

She dives deep for pearls, shells,
anything - in warm water she is ancient
and always comes up with her knife
between her teeth, like
Geena Davis in those freezing scenes
on a waterwheel, except
she has a conch in one hand, an oyster
in the other, reaching up to you there, set
above the waist of the ocean, leaning over the deck,
smiling, whereas Geena Davis
came out of the water all guns blazing,
blew the killer away. She's diving again
and it's incompletely silent all of a sudden,
unlike the struggling scenes of twisted bubbles and blood
as Geena pulled on the ropes at her wrists;
it's still, you standing there, a pearl and conch
in your hands, waiting for her to surface,
and when she does, no knife between her teeth,
was it to tell you she loved you first?

sea blue crystal

aquamarine sea blue crystal
white light crests roaring air rolling sound
snaking rocks rocking long harmonic breath
tones spilling waves sluicing waterfalls
sweeping volcanic plateau rock pool shore bound surf stretches
leaning impressions traversing stone sarong skin pore cliff

tidal-pull-wash beckoning back to sea jagged shell
rock pool waking life white lightening fireworks sea blue
crystal dreams confetti-ing flowering word shoals
aquamarine to solid indigo darkening depths
opening violet fathoms peddling stretch runners longing
an azure horizon

arching curves returning light-lapis cloud lines sun tints pink
sunset flamingo golden amber flare lavas wet sand dry

rose golden embers white bubbles inhale
turquoise to malachite.


.

sarongs

sarong sling

sarong sling on the beach tattoos from the wrist draped around a shoulder silk enough for a kite against the sky...calm breeze blows ribbon frays silky wing fluttering the feathery palm tree menagerie of birds - no cat except half-a-tail snoozing on the tin roof of The Beach Shack - yawning yoga hot noon Madam Sangria glasses and sun-wrinkles polishes a silver tray, flashes the napping parrots, dazzles eyes inhaling sea bubbles wets lips and the golden nectar beads rolling the icy glass of a nice cold beer soon reflect sarong tattoos draping the painted haiku of shells quietly reading stones at the bar.



if the dress

The busy tailor, and the hardworking seamstress, too hot for May, whispers ‘…hear your woman is wearing her sarong? say they saw her dance flamenco in the square, say she was a diamond kite in the night sky too…seen your woman rough diamond the clouds?…say she laughs in the streets every day a painting – and say it’s scandalous; there were photographs, flash photographs..’

The tailor looks up and smiles, ‘I hear my woman is wearing her sarong like a kite, dancing at the beach in the moonlight while I am working on the ribbons and frays’ and the seamstress blushes by the window embroidering the sash with petals, ‘yes…yes…I’m listening out for her too…’ laying her template on the cloth, no straight lines to cut - ‘if the dress’ she said, the afternoon she wore her sarong to the beach.



Dreamer’s tin of Graffiti Special

“You are a Dreamer!” she says
slightly exasperated to say the very least
the popped Champagne cork
the souvenir magnum smoking the sarong
so I simply take a ladder to the horizon line
lean it against the sky
climb each rung as high as I can
take out my tin of Graffiti Special
write ‘I LOVE YOU’ in huge
rounded letters on the blue
slide down the ladder
becoming a canoe and paddle
my heart out heading for the sarong
now a haiku of shells quietly reading
and if a cloud goes by and the sarong
becomes a Japanese scarf on the washing line
it may be of interest to note a bird in a haiku
calls just before I open the Champagne.


Daisy,

The other day, a complete stranger
ran up to me and said, ‘Let’s
get married! Let’s get married!
and hopped on to my tandem.
Naturally I replied, ‘Miss,
we’ve only just met. Please -
remove yourself from my bicycle,
that seat is reserved for Daisy.”
Mercifully, she obliged and wandered off,
just before Daisy appeared
carrying a shopping bag for her dad,
“Alright Ducks?” she said, “I’m knackered”
and placed her belongings into the basket,
hopped on board, buffed the chrome with her hanky,
and looked just fine, “You take it easy, my love,
I’m as fit as a fiddle to peddle the metal.
You freewheel a starfish.” and peddled off,
hard up the hill; easy-sailing all the way home.”




Wood Stacks


Wood stacks along the beaches for St John,
for luck, for the summer months to come,
for little boats fishing lines home – families
build fire beacons on their patch of turf,
filter the sand, wriggle toes in surf,
and gather, eat together, throw the dog a bone,
sun-kiss tomatoes in the first rays of summer.

Sunset is falling a shawl around shoulders
in a peachy pink blaze when we need golden
wands of warmth. Let it be tassels, frays,
knots in big soft dots swirling on a sky’s silky stretch.
Let it be wrapped in dusk’s sweet breath. Darkness.

Strike a match; tinder kindling ignites tongues
as they burn a fallen tree - roots and juice
of hardwood fizz, eyes of pine pop to ash.
A scent, a last glance in oils - Midnight,
Madrugada - we jump the fires
to find the open arms of friends
and the flames warming the embers of a distant hug.
Never-ending hellos farewells lots of love.

Madrugada, Midnight to morning, couples walk
the hot coals, volcanoes dream of the last time
they were floating candles, each island
alight as fire-circles sparking,
and it seems all a display for the stars
before bedtime, when fireworks bouquet the sky.



The Shawl

I talked about needlepoint with a man from Kashmir.
Embroidering by hand leaves thread behind,
knots, looping pictures of browned fingers
busy through the Monsoon of June.
He told me he would make one for you
and send it charmed: for your shoulders, birds;
and for your arms, branches of Almond and Marigold.
So you will never feel the weight of it,
for the chill of the night or an aching heart,
warming pink falling petals confetti
to a delicate silver clasp,
fashioned by an old hand,
carved in the flowers of Royalty;
and imagined in the breeze, a butterfly ring,
fraying tassels trailing the back of your chair;
a fluttering around your shoulders before it gets there.