Umbrella Complete
Pink sails
Melting hearts
In shimmering detail
Stretched as eyes of distance
Pressed for time on the promenades wasteland.
Lapping shores,
Games of waves;
Sucking stones
Shaking graves,
Crashing, clattering,
Chuckling like bones
Crippled inside
Boldy scattered
Thoughts of space
Broken.
Talk of spoken stories
Whistles blowing
Flags low
Passing tubes to gusts of dreams
Blustering it seems
Adjusted and played by teams
Passing bowls of mustard
To address a growing aloneness,
A stone is thrown
Bouncing on each other
And landing in the Sea
Splash
A conversation with me.
Patrick Turner-Lee 2019 copyright
