Seidel

Seidel

like paracetamol passed its best

you’re not helping

I look to you

for a pinch of filth

and fanciful suppleness

But this day

under a cold quilt

of clouds

when conversations on the air

carry like lost children

off the street

through my window

and the wind

whips saline tears

off the ageing face

of the English Channel

you bring nothing

but confusion

and the foreshadowing

of more rotten Brighton weather