On deck facing south

And then the eastern clouds turned purple, their bases creased 

like babies’ arses or the folded cheeks of dead old men. 

All the melba sunset plattered-up like Michelin

daubs and palette-smears, Quatre Saisons two thousand and two. 

Much stiller than the sea whose time it is now, seething up 

the white to indigo. So this is indigo. Some rainbow 

promised it would come; this is its first and only time. 

The clouds turn coal heap, scuttle creep or fly. This is crescendo 

of goodbye. The rightest thing to do would be to fling this phone 

into the sea, tumble-turn it outwards on a launch arc 

in defiance of the law. But o life, sea life

what would you do with us, this declaration of a little love 

in electricity. Swallow up, lull us up, swing us down

tell us it's a facile thing, this life, blacken us, purple us

mulch us up, turn around, spit us out, churn.

Lesley James