Books in piles from next to my bed. Read, unread, reference.
Ship in a bottle. My Grandfather’s.
Papery lanterns shed from the Cape Goosberries I picked on Saturday.
Coral pieces and shells inlaid with mother-of-pearl, washed up treasures from Sunday afternoon on Castle Rock beach.
Drift wood from far up the West Coast.
Plum tree blossoms from across the road. Plums remind me of something.
An outdated globe I used to play with as a child, spinning it with my eyes closed and stopping it somewhere exotic with my finger. That’s where I’m going to live.
Me, aged seven, on a see-saw. Seapoint promenade.
The details of my life are inconsequential.
I am, today, a shipwreck on a grain of sand. Yesterday I was a balloon who floated too close to the sun. Tomorrow I could well be the clouds in your coffee.