Scarborough

Scarborough 

I’m flicking through seaside photos 

of people I love. There are many.

In some, we are the perfect reason.

There are others where we’re not right.

Something crooked, perhaps cowardly. 

It’s in our eyes. Always our hurt eyes. 

Over years, images dissolve into liquidity. 

The undertow takes us. As if badly skimmed

stone hearts into tired Scarborough waves.