Dear Sydney Graham
‘Under your blue hat.’ – W. S. Graham, ‘Dear Bryan Wynter’
My feet wear odd socks today, one of yours, One of mine, see how well they go together. Apologies, I’ve come to your funeral late, Dressed oddly and for a night on the town.
A pint of foaming seawater with Malcolm Mooney, Lent out, for a short while, to fast from death and form A lasting impression. Together We can moon over whatever midnight moonlit furry Queens and meropian mermaidens have set aside their fish Tails and crowns to land in this dive and prop up the bar. Chat them up with old jokes and new famous phrases; A dead man makes a fine wingman.
Hungover, next morning, Still hanging on, at the very end of the land, I go dayfishing. I go dayfishing, and the ghosts come at night. And by day I dream I dream you’ll wash up upon the shore, in alien Whiteness, like some deep sea creature. But I know, Sydney, you’re on the other side of earth.
There is distance Between us Like the hard space between Pen and paper.
I linger by the swept shoreline and seven seas, Unready for the Eighth Journey you go on.
The voice breaks The still winter seas crack I hear you Capped beneath blue braes.
I wear seaweeds and nakedness; I fold your flotsam into me, like ocean floated origami. I drink my own salt tears. Mooney guides the tide in.
Damp letters wash up next to my bare feet. The waves have taken their words, but I will be Careful not to tread on them.