By Tess Foley
All I did was fall straight down and out of love.
Could be when you maimed the lanes, more likely when I
Noticed upright sentries, every road with every turn,
On the Campbell, they barked my memory of a man of God
In the morning after shame.
Every drain cover a face routinely stared at
With regret the taste of bitten wood. In the rockless cradle
Hanging from the coast, I’m on the cusp of Netley sometimes
Napier and tint with irritation at the places I once fell asleep
In public, how dare you bulldoze them.
Your curves, tonight, look like they’ve been drawn
With clumsy, heartless hands, two of them on one unsharpened chalk.,
It’s quick to walk the Eastern when you’ve been chucked by witless,
Wonder what there’ll be here forty-five years time,
More seagulls that’s for sure.
All I did was fall straight down and out of love.
In to the arms of Festing and of Fawcett when the question
Was could I show my face, of course I could back here,
To you, with all your faults and your three open corners
And beaches with no sand, I can’t stay cross with you.
