Might I name this breeze ‘The scratch’
Like the sound of needle on vinyl before
The singer or orchestra make their entrance
The sound of the formula one racing cars
As they take that long corner at the far end
Of the two hundred miles per hour circuit
The sound of the sea washing the shore
Though we know the shore to be too far away
For the wind to carry the rush of the sea
It is the sandpaper in my own mind that generates
The internal sense of ‘scratch’; sandpaper which
I would willingly rub over those f’ing mosquitoes bites
This poem is from the collection
