Mensa, begin a song from the future.
The estuary rises to our dangling feet
Since we have sat together bold with cider
On this high pier, like blackbirds on a totem
Three tiers above a pregnant bear with frogs
Emerging from her ears, a human form
And not a salmon on extended tongue.
What the fuck? The moon is on her back.
You’re pissed, you twat, pissed as a sparky newt.
The rain is in her nest above the Severn,
Obscuring half a shape that’s leaning out
To listen for our song, so you’ll begin.
We lived in Lydney
As if it was
By background sea
In Titian’s Bacchus
A shore of Naxos
Lipped by the Severn
Our blue Forest
Of Dean a haven
Could not have governed
Our days focussed
On getting out
Of it, reclined
In hidden spots
Where we could find
The unkempt god
In Kwik Save wine.
It’s time we went, this asymptotic tide
Swirls at our trainers almost angrily,
I swear there’s going to be a heavy shower,
I felt a drop and now another two
Splashing the top of my unpropped, chilled spine,
I sense my soul’s a bay a wall could clear
Of silt and Lydney newly formed behind.
It’s going to piss it down for sure, let’s head
On back to town and see what we can do.
Original appearance in New Dublin Press.