mild existentialism in a coastal churchyard
Beside the pub
where Samantha - with eyelashes that cut like a Dyson Airblade -
stands with a collection tin
for the RNLI,
is the churchyard.
There's a oddness to all this:
the insomnia of swallow-swifts which whirl
under the ink-pot sky;
the reed-hidden pier, thrust out
into red-reflective water.
It makes me wonder, if we were to meet "up there",
you and I, why wouldn't it be
on blow-up furniture? A 70s throwback to turquoise?
We'd sit in a room,
perfectly etch-a-sketched by God
and laugh about whom we would
or wouldn't have dated after each other. We wouldn't
need to justify our answers. (All beside the point, I guess.)
Rather this: that as this evening lowers
its soft jaw on the here-and-now,
this bench blotched with asterisks of lichen, these yews that bow...
I still think of you
among the rows of greening headstones
this frozen game
of Guess Who.