The Pier

Walking with the tide,
against an estuary wind.
I step dented cans, broken bottles.
Plastic bags posing as jellyfish.

And I think of you,
all of you.
What you meant.

I think of the sting you never wanted to bring.
The silence of shuddering truth.
The garish colours of change.

I cannot believe that’s what you wanted.
A swimmer friend.
Someone to dry your hair,
after taking you ashore.

I can’t do that, not my style.

I could never give you starfish, you see.
Just rotting seaweed and drowning birds,
wrapped in histories heart.

A voice in my head once said.
‘Make the world happy.’
The same voice is screaming now.
‘MAKE YOURSELF HAPPY FIRST!’

And for the first time in my life,
I’m listening.

So. From now on.
I’ll dry my own hair.
I’ll walk my own tide.
I’ll build my own pier.