This Summer

I throw my voice to the gulls on the quay.

Strawberry tea—the black kind, which can take
milk; champagne mornings; afternoon cakes too
pretty to ignore—too pretty to eat.

This summer, a retreat for you, perhaps?
Notebooks; sketch pads; a green, feathery hat;
a seamstress’ paraphernalia;
and, well, a garret (of sorts) by the sea.

This summer on the sand, we will lie, absorbed by
the night. With paper and pen,
we will capture the heartbeat
of the universe. Let’s get in sync
with the summer—let’s form a band of renegades.
With flea market gadgetry, we will fashion songs
of Whitby jet, of Whitby jet, of Whitby jet.

Ink bleeds; dark energy pushes the stars apart;
a blinding datastream enters my mind.

I throw my voice to the gulls on the quay;
then a kind of electrical storm
begins. It’s you and me, side by side:
hand in hand, we face the polluted tide.
There, amid the litter on a gust of
summer air, her discarded umbrella
becomes a crow set free from a snare.

Welcome to this small and yet
significant northern town
of harbour fog, B&Bs,
lobster pots, and balladry.

This summer, inhale the dawn, and press your
lips against pale flesh, as hard as you dare.
Set up shop if you want to; I don’t mind.
Really, I don’t. Stay as long as you like.

There are those who return to pick fruit, or
barter for unbroken horses at the
fayre. This summer, we will learn what they know.

There’s that girl with cats’ eyes tattooed on her
back. I try not to stare: it’s a battle
I’m losing.

This summer on the sand, we will lie, absorbed by
the night. With paper and pen,
we will capture the heartbeat
of the universe. Let’s get in sync
with the summer—let’s form a band of renegades.
With flea market gadgetry, we will fashion songs
of Whitby jet, of Whitby jet, of Whitby jet.

Strange, pretty girl, you seem to drift away
from time to time, like a beautiful but
half-finished thought. Let’s revive the lost art
of letter-writing—throw caution to the
warm summer wind. Real ink; coloured paper;
smudges; scribbles; feverish crossings-out:
molten love beneath gently dwindling flame.

Welcome to this small and yet
significant northern town
of harbour fog, B&Bs,
lobster pots, and balladry.

#

I. Into the Tumulus: Out of the Fire

Bellerophon tenderly bridles the
uncertain nuzzling—the untameable
stallion. Playfully rebellious,
he rears. His sculpted musculature steams,
tautened. His vast wingbeats bring wave after
breaking wave, and a feathery sea foam.
His veins are dark with Medusa’s rich blood.
They journey into the dread-enwombing,
deathly tumescence of the chimera’s
bone-strewn lair, and emerge like smoke-hatchlings.
To not relinquish the reins is to know
tumult—the breathless exhilaration,
anguish and love of poet-warriors.