Happiness.

the Christmas coca cola truck
tinsel and baubles
plastic tree
and flashing lights
are hard to take

she finds
my real tree
wooden toys
and paper decorations
boring and pretentious

but we both know
that neither of us chose
what makes us happy.

TRISTAN MOSS.


Vicissitude.

part of me’s
one of those picturesque villages
that’s stayed the same
for strangers
who have no interest
in nearby places
that had to change.

TRISTAN MOSS.

Robin Hoods Bay.

upon a steeped slope
the captain’s cottage rests
and a kiss

the old arch reveals
a leopard woman majestic

murmuring tide advancing
galloping tongues of rock
enticing a lover’s death

the pier funnels the waves
surging against the harbour wall

fossils use the wet sand
communicating their story
dense stories of sorrow

an awkward silhouette
beneath a smugglers tunnel

the sky is mottled
full of rain
and promises

is there a lighthouse here?
how fast is the tide?

our boots full of sea water
a quiet happiness
basks the town

waves roll in atop the undertow
even while the city encases us

Butterflies seem rare this year.

TOM LYNAM.