POEMS

'The Sea Steals Our Picnic Blanket' – Why I Wear My Past to Work

and returns cling film cleansed. Scrub

your fingertips in the fairy-liquid waves,

my captured goodwill floats away in our lunchbox.

At the scene of the crime you tilt your soaked

face to evict ear-squatter sand, ask why

I had positioned us so close to the sea. Shells prise

my protestations. My eardrum bursts, wax surfs

on pulsing waves. Jellyfish fireworks

sting the sky. Rocks thud like bailiffs:

I’d dragged our blanket, four-course platter

and cava down to the shore. A downpour

threatened, even the tide was leaving.

But in a final assault it nicked our basket:

a week’s wages feeding the fishes. My wrists

freeze under my seaweed-soaked shirt.

Your pupils are beads from the seabed

drawn by nature’s net. I want to pick

at your best bits, before you leave again:

this open shell won’t close. 

'Picking Olives' – All Island No Sea

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I watch an elderly neighbour wilt, through our kitchen
window’s frosted glass. A tracksuited teenager 

offers her water. My muddy fleece matches
the communal garden opposite, your bump

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almost bigger than our packed fridge, spitting
out the snacks you crave. I’m wearing my best
smile, making a joke so funny that drivers 
on the road below rubberneck; the open freezer 

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door reveals family photos, holiday magnets. I wash 
salad, prepare olives. You shriek, we’re clutching stomachs, 
and I hear neighbours in the garden tearing up
roots. I’m viewing our lives from under our spot-

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light; planting olive pits and watching you grow –
our little one kicking; changing life as we know.​​​​​

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