To walk with you, David, is too sad sometimes, even 200
million years ago
or when holidaying in a poem it could be the tender
albatross chick’s
love story: first time alone, falls from the nest,
unrecognised on return.
You evidence that this world is a wasteland of love and
sacrifice, and pointless
sacrifice, of dead seal pups wind-stung in our climate’s
increasing storms.
(Here, only one mammal will shield its young in this kind
of blizzard
but we really do not need orchestras, or you, David, to
suggest
how much it might have hurt to leave and take refuge in
the deep)
And of survival – dog eat dog eat under-dog until nobody knows
who they are backing anymore. I suggested we escape all
this,
seahorse somewhere tropical but it never works out that way.
Instead, an Almoldova electric underworld of killer blubber,
a tacky pink
starfish world of Aunty’s handbags and hankies dabbing
underwater tears.
It is not comic, Hollywood nor Disney, no Python bunny here,
David.
It is not a Goa high street of window-shopping cows and hot
leather.
It is simply cold and ugly beside the beauty of baby
penguins
as half a world away bulls hammer-smash each other in dozer
waves
rippling tasers of fat for bacon-thin gammon strips of St
Andrews.
Who would surface, and brace for this? Blizzards sting
like a disturbed nest
or the scissor kick squeal sequel of pot lobster. I was not
looking for sick
head chefs, Nationalists, and squid pissing ink at closing time.
It is all too familiar.
Who would surface for when wherever you look pushes further
away -
to where it is too hard for love. It appears too hard to love anymore.
Holidaying with you in the strongest currents swirling around this tip of land,
waiting for krill and plankton spring banquets to seat humpbacks
in anthracite ammonite spirals bubbling champagne nets - should be beautiful,
this rising to toast the feast apocalypse.
They are bravely living, each one, while I am afraid, David,
that you
are a Goliath of truth science smashing through the last
grit of dream
we are all made from. Not your fault I will hate even you
for it, the orchestra,
the ice, and the crazed glazed lobster, while I cry for your
pod and krill.
6/9/2020