“Everyone, regardless of where they grew up,
has a ‘primal landscape’.”
I see you sitting on that roadside bank
level with the tall, brittle, yellow grass
as it bends and then it breaks in wind unheard from the road,
reaching for a low, brown hill under damp, coastal clouds.
Inside Peckham flats a blanket drapes,
green and orange and indigo.
A wheel spins the day into life
and a thousand colours burst
onto a grey concrete exterior.
Down days, when cold grates lay ashen,
chilled the fingers and toes of life,
home was a frozen, primal landscape.
Up days were those warmed with a blaze.
Show me the ocean that Balboa saw,
set me to sail white, taut in the wind.
Give me a horse swift as demons ride,
then set you, ich bitte dich, tight by my side.
Ancient stone: a windswept child’s playground.
Lines of green and yellow, rain-stained walls
anchored between shifting sea and sky.
Racing wheels, racing clouds;
If I am lost, found crying in the maze,
don’t lead me home, point me a different tack
and when the sunrise gilds another day
I’ll take my chance, go dance that newfound way.