Summer

There’s something about the summer months,
the way they always seem to remind me of you,
your freckled skin and the way it peeled
from your shoulders like thin lace,
in the days when I read you Ginsberg,
and didn’t recognise the weight in the words,
the transience of the moment, so let it fade
to a season-long haze lingering faint until winter,
without the warmth to give it clarity.

Sunny days are when I am at my most alone,
sparking nostalgia for something long since passed,
my own skin red in the light and burning overnight
like I used to burn for you in June,
because I have a tendency to live in the past
and the clear skies lie heavy on my uneasy mind,
stirring images from elsewhere and allowing them
to bleed into the present scene like water
seeking the spaces between the stones
forming the wall of my memories.

Hold fast to your sinking ship;
I’ll fire safety flares from the shore.

Chichester, June 2017

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