In the spring, the parts of them,

the soft, paper thin made up faces,

littered the alleys and the folds of a park -

 a throb of alcohol ladening everything.

Safety pinned and tilted,

they had the world at the tip of their cigarette.

 

In the summer, they went east -

their hair full of incense and the calculations

the heart presented

over coffee, pot and each other’s limbs.

Mind over matter,

they lost their clothes,

following the sun into the sea.

 

In the autumn, they put their honey in their apron,

with gold leaf glued to the nursery walls.

They settled for everything second hand,

learning more,

the precious tunes they sang,

skipping around them with muddy faces

and revolutions.

 

In winter, they toasted fires,

berry-sweet, their bellies full and warm.

He would pull the blanket around her,

wrinkling and smiling - their eyes, the sound of running feet,

following the sun into the sea.