He’s unafraid of death, inexplicably.
He would like to turn away from the sea,
The city’s nearby, the old job.
He wants to forget the layers of words,
Water rhymes with water, and with water.
Let’s pretend the brown sofa in your living room
Where you made love is a small boat
And the curtain in the window is a sail.
The waves roam faraway
And the clouds wheel with the ballads of gulls
And through the evaporation, you see the glitter
Of his beautiful decay, there amid all his art
With which he never painted you
Because he painted words. And drowned you.
And saved you. And drowned you.
Isle of Hoy 