The sun always grabs us by surprise its yolky wash on a pub wall the clumsy spill round the black legs of café tables.
it rains so frequently it’s like the sea trying to climb out of its skin. The beach is a runnelled grey, an old man’s face in cardiac arrest.
we have stopped being pretty, all of us too many pills and pill-packs embarrass our pockets; the future served up three times daily after meals.
Comments