scarborough

The sound of my written voice leaves me cold,
Echoed by shrill seagulls. Tethered by train
Timetables. Homelessness. Isolated
As a skiff in a Northern sea. The sound
Of my written voice feels like a song
Lacking bass, tinny, surfing, in fear of
Other worlds, (deep down blue). As lost as the
Shirt sleeved blokes who drink lager in the
Noon day sun; The woman on paved stone,
Black hair spilling from her anxiety brain.
My written voice reaches for torn roots,
For skies it’s never flown through. It listens
To a former self and chuckles like a drunk
Laughing at the picture of a soul it knew
Before the drink took hold. The sun sets
On Scarborough and my written voice
Totters in the shadow of memory.


07.06