Standing at the brink

in off-brand corduroy, dyed wool

picking apart the sunbeams

with your one hand slowly

closing.

The funicular sings silent

the third curve of dust-white

aggregate is steeper still

and behind you lies

the vast bowl of swallowed

time, the shattered stopwatch

shards hanging loosely

quivering swords

over ripped Polaroid.

 

You drop the stone

from bridge parapet.

No-one to see

no-one to care.

On the beach you try

to explain that one rock

is conglomerate, and insist

that all other interpretations

are, if not wrong, ill-judged

at most.

Your family point to the sea

where dusk, homeliest

of tranquilisers, nods

with first questions.

 

You swore you'd

return tomorrow.

Wear the sea as a shawl

not forget

not let the years

that stuttered out

draw a line up to now.

I look at those clothes

under that sun,

want to cut it out

place it in your palm.

Standing at the brink

waiting for a new

nameless depth.