Transparent

I will start with the cloud

If only because it is unusual

Then again, also because

It sharpens the horizon

Whose thin line

Of deepest serge-blue

Cuts straight across; divides the sky

And the sea; it partitions the sea and sky

Between the horizon

And my shoes there are many shades

Of blue, blues that merge

Merge blue to green

Which then

Through many shades 

Of greens, merge to white

Before the orange splash

Of sand; a soft colour

Very soft indeed, in sharp contrast 

To my luminescent, fluorescent

And super-phosphorescent, purple socks

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Collected

That moment of joy

Over the sand dunes

Past the restaurant

Down the worn out steps

On to the sun-drenched beach

Skip freely on the sands

To the sea - all full

Of splendid waves

& the foam

As they turn and crash

Unrestrained, unbeaten

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In place of DIY

Less of a search for memory, we leave the pictures

Of distressed doors and windows behind

More in a hope for future self-expression

The thought is to create rather than buy

Although right now the plan is to navigate

Past Portimao, to the sands of Praia da Rocha

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Cortes Real, Paderne

Incessant chatter

Out among the dry trees

In the acres

Of interminable scrub

A life’s work: of space

Colours, hues; backdrops

Of washed-white walls

For giclée prints and

Idiosyncratic objet d’art

Above me, as a shade

A triangular canvas

Suggestive of the voyages

Of more adventurous

Portuguese artists

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Divide

The blood blister is expanded

As though the pool of ozone treated water

Had infiltrated the final layer of skin, passed

Through the membrane to dilute the purple puss

& thereby facilitate its further hold around the finger

There are five shades of green; from lime

To grass, to fir, to laburnum, to mimosa

There is only one pink, that of the solitary rose

Planted, one presumes, with a certain purpose

Perhaps to the memory of a prematurely lost love

And so the flies land on the skin; drawn by the sense

Of victory, or drawn by the same death as witnessed

By the fallen and dried leaves of the bougainvillaea

An old climber, that trails haphazard over the pergola

This poem is from the collection