Two wooden forks.
Over the weekend, we took a trip down to Brighton, somewhat spontaneously after Don had planted the seed a few days before. We’d gotten up late, headed to London Bridge to jump on the train, along with provisions to snack on along the way.
And then there was this moment, where he went off (for a wee if you must know), just after we’d scoffed some chips, and I looked across the scene and found myself in pure bliss.
It’s odd, writing. For me it ebbs and flows, and often for many years at least, I haven’t allowed myself space to practice. Instead, I’m obsessively busy, whether with work or with personal life. I’m afraid to be still and to simply be. This is perhaps one of the greatest gifts he has given me.
But I’m also thinking a lot recently about my place in the world, what I give my time and energy to. I’ve stepped away from a chaotic career and chosen to invest in myself instead. It means that, I hope, I can focus more time on telling stories, writing prose and refining poetry, all with the aim of creating something that perhaps others will enjoy and see themselves in.
On the front, legs dangling over pebbles,
Sea wall to save, and salt in the air
Between us sits a portion of chips
And fish, drowned in sodium, vinegar that stings
And a pile of green, peas mushy, dolloped
Spread out like a feast, two wooden forks upend
Spearing batter, flaky, white
It crosses a divide, and pulls us closer
Love of food transposes a love for each other
As the waves crash, and break in front
And returns pulling with it the sediment of past
Replacement, replenishment, a reminder
That what once was won’t always be
But what matters most is that it was at all
The seagull chirps, swoops and dives
Preying on unsuspecting guests
Chatter fills the air, their distant conversation
Drifts on the breeze and snippets of secrets
Are shared amongst strangers, née friends
With us, as our feet swing back and forth
The unspoken love, that the tongue fails
The body makes up for. And a chip, lonely
Is passed in the newspaper between us
Stalemate as the gold meets the horizon
Strangers no more