Love-struck.

She waits, her pale legs dangle and her feet ripple the water. The sun is setting, gold meets orange meets pink. She can’t wait much longer.

Her reflection does not lie, she sweeps her red curls away from her face, and she sees the palpable sadness in her dark eyes,

She wants to love him, to take him away from his hushed and stale life. She adores him and wishes him to leave his tiresome wife.

The sun barely lingers, it begins to disappear behind the black silhouette hill. Her heart breaks and her legs fade. She slides into the water and thrashes her scaled tail. She hesitates and takes one last look towards the sandy path. Nothing. She submerges her naked body and swims down to the murky depths. Tears salt the sea.

He parks the car and he scans the shore. He runs to the edge, cursing the heated domestic argument which has made him so late. Nothing. Just the sea. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be.

Friday Night.

Red
Is the carnal
Stirrings
Of Friday night.

Red
Is the dark wine
Which I sip
And savour.

Red
Is the lipstick print
Staining
My glass.

Red
Is lust,
The fleeting eye contact,
The flirtatious game.


Red
Is the quick glimpse
Of a stocking top
Meeting flesh.

Red
Is my heart
Beating
That little bit faster.

Red
Is kissing lips,
Exploring hands
And breathy sighs.

Red
Is the way
My clothes
Fall to the floor.

Red
Is a passionate flashback,
Hot blushing cheeks
And a Saturday morning smile.

Little Boy Blue.

There must have been the white of the soft cellular blanket. There must have been the crimson red of my blood. But I only remember the blue.

We knew that we were having a little boy. We painted all the nursery walls in a Dulux colour called ‘Blue Babe’, it was perfect. We filled up drawers in giddy anticipation, buying vests, sleepsuits, tiny striped socks and woolly hats.

He was blue when he was born, the cord had wrapped around his neck, and his lips were dark and bruised. Silence.

Giant waves crashed around my head and I felt seasick as I covered my ears to block out the piercing scream. It was me. It was my scream.

We buried him under a calm blue sky, we said goodbye and gave him a blue teddy bear.

Its winter now but the blues remain, though sometimes they are grey and darker still.

Blue; when a torrent of tears strips away the outer layer of numb.

Being a kid in the 1980’s.

I hate orange, it tries to force you to be upbeat and happy, it’s even more annoying than yellow.

Orange is the carrots scattered around my plate, as a child, the ones I loathed even more than cabbage and sprouts.

I had to eat all of those mushy orange circles before I could leave the table. If I didn’t finish them, there would be no Sara Lee Double Chocolate Gateau for me. Excruciating madness.

Orange carrots were spiteful and they made me crazy. I once chopped them up into the tiniest little bits and spread them around the empty family plates, trying to pass them off as peculiar leftovers. Naturally, I was rumbled. I was sent to bed and wasn’t even allowed to watch Neighbours.

I tried to put carrots in my pockets to flush down the toilet. My legs were slapped for that. Carrots made me desperate back then.

I quite like them now, after all that.

Hello, Sailor.

Blonde curls.

Black heart.

Blue eyes.

Dead inside.

Coral skin.

Cruel intent.

Angelic aria.

Toxic tones.

Cockleshell crown.

Liar lips.

Arousing words.

Poisonous charm.

Green jewels.

Stolen treasures.

Beckoning fingertips.

Bated breath.

Welcoming arms.

Shocking strength.

Bare breasts.

Inviting temptation.

Soft curves.

Sealing fate.

Gripping hands.

Drowning day.