At the bottom of the valley.
It is hot here and every morning when I wake
There are flies buzzing in the room.
Really angry about something.
Viscous and unforgivable.
I am walking this day by day.
Finding my way and taking some time.
This is now but I will never stop wondering.
The last night in London.
London in the summer time,
And him,
And me.
(Dipping my toes into the water)
Will you always hope to take my hand?
Wear an effortless hat on sunny afternoons
And bring flowers on a Sunday morning?
Will you always laugh or angrily bite at
The way I romanticise every last peeling bit of wall paper
In our scummy late night lives?
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