Through the polished open window floods a plethora of sounds
that drown the petty worries pounding in the small spiral bones
of my ear, a drum. Rewind. It has so often been this time
of day. At the coast, a lost child threw her sandals in the sea
to mark and watch the way the tide drew back into Cardiff Bay.
Before and after, the moon was shallow in a carbon monoxide sky.
Once, between the bills by the kitchen sink, he found his Grandmother’s
childhood photographs, and we considered the old man in the background;
he wondered what he was doing then. I almost cared what he was doing now.

Consider this image: a homesteader’s wagon ripping apart compounds
in the air as it rams wheels into every inch of the motorway.
The doors are open wide – it is adored and yet not used. Alone,
the driver accelerates until she reaches the end of the road. It’s the same
signposts every step of the way: seventy, falling rocks, cattle crossing,
no hard shoulder for fifty yards. It will turn out that the world is flat,
and little enters with that as a prediction for a predetermined destination.

Come, come, come for the thrill of an empty ride!

Throw love beneath the rails, or watch it drift away like tumbleweed.
Trap hope between the dash of hyphenated tracks and pass by the pretentious
details. Just read one long love poem and watch one everlasting sunset.

I have no anchor now. The years unravel in a day.
The roof is off and the bridge is low; the car is empty.

My grandchild finds a photograph of me beneath a can of ginger beer;
an old woman watching the tide reach Land’s End, her arms in the air,
her hair blown in her face and her teeth showing a grimace in an open mouth.