Monday, 22 February 2010


Morning scores along the edges of the day
Like a tin opener on a can of sardines.

Your kiss on my lips is sweet with cider
And the sea-salt of sleep.

I am bevelled for you, parched.

With a line of question marks,
Shakily drawn with your morning hand of tremor
You rescue my whole world.

We walk together,

There is nothing but the artichoke stroke of your skin on mine.
The warmth of you is my
Eye, my smile, my sigh.
I am as happy as a tuna fish in brine,
drunk, cosy, packed flat, I am fine.

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