Creative Works
A bit like Tai Chi
The sea moves rhythmically
Ebbing and flowing
Autumn
He sat in the pub when the world was brown,
In the afternoon of his humdrum life.
He ordered a double and phoned his wife,
Defeated, deflated, they’d let him down.
She was a writer from a seaside town.
His party had split; the rumours were rife.
She had Pre-Raphaelite hair just like his wife,
And fiery eyes that burned his bridges down.
He can’t recall the name of the hotel,
only that it was somewhere-on-sea, near
A tattoo parlour and a seaside bar.
He remembers she had a tiny scar,
Under her left eye, that looked like a tear,
And a fierce anger he could not quell.
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