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Description
impetuous dreams of
seashores and your scarf
billowing in open breezes,
granulated images dusted
with salt and the rinds
of leftover tides,
your footprints stark
in miles of wet sand.

I have all these dreams
of running, to Paris or
Bali, never stopping until
we run out of air
to breathe or reach
the very edges
of the map.

I’m convinced the lines
on my palms are a mess
of co-ordinates,
the longitudes
and latitudes
of all the seashores
we should stand at,
our toes in the ocean
and our heels
on solid ground,
my hair
wild and buffeted,
your scarf
streaming,
as we take
one last
moonshine breath
and run our way
off the map
entirely.

coral fibres left imprinted
on our cheeks, we could
drown in the reefs beneath
the dinner-plates
of the earth, or perhaps
slip into another realm
of currents and moon-tether
and sea-storms,
where we start with
no air and no place
left to run,
but all this time
to hold,
all this time
to stay,
dancing to the tune
of whale-song
slowly receding,
as we sing back
in happier keys.