Clacton

In the foggy hollow of a stranger's doorstep

I heard my sorrow speak

A liberated voice that floated and froze

in a winter seaside air

Contradicting and yet becoming one with

the darkened silence

Murmuring to me

an abent wreck an absent wreck an absent wreck

A fucking mess

I walked, paced, strolled and sat

and cocooned myself in a £3 rag

Then I shifted and lifted

and did it all again

waiting to see a strange town go quiet

and hear my worries fall asleep

And I cried because soon

I would have to go.

home

---

originally written January 2016