The morning is a castle mist,

a grey paint, ghost shroud.

Last night I dreamt we were lovers,

I took pen, paper, sealed green bottle,

wise and smiling, sucking the nib;

now suddenly I'm hunting down cracks,

placing my fingers inside and pulling-

(you said these fissures were only

a minor concern...slants

in the skirting, warm with the fading

central heating).

 

Two hearts beat in the pulse of the boatman,

sweep of oar, ripple of matt surface,

grey, a heron's glass, preen, dive.

A passing tourist flicks another button,

another memory created, just as

mine and yours will dissolve, in candid,

breakfasted sprawl.