Bladderwrack

That day, we went to the seaside
and wave-jumped in the Devon waters,
believing with the placebo faith
of British tourists that the water
is getting a little warmer.

You wrote in your leather-look book
as I padded about
on wet rubber sand
for razors, conches, the odd
off-course starfish
crisping in what sun there was.

Watching you scribble,
I decided on a career
as a Dr Who Sea Devil.
Collecting bladderwrack, I made
my bulbed green wig. Grains
on my face for overscaled flesh,
I rose from the brine
like some nightmare Ursula Andress,
unk-unking, arms thrust forward,
towards your perch. I think
it was your Tom Baker scarf,
rainbowed, worn with trunks,
that made me come over
all peculiar.