All Tomorrows

so many goodbyes I've said and had to say until the world was gone and I was nothing but my husk carried by the wind over the cliff almost until I made the world my own I am that I am

        So here I stand by the pond,       Peer into the murky green       Where my beloved ghosts live on.       One love in every verse,       And others go unsaid.       May this crudeness be forgiven. Monica   Deep down at the bottom,   The little coal-haired girl   With sea-blue eyes   Lived in my heart alone   My made-up girl   Made-up friend Elisabeth   Village mayor’s baby girl   Her wild red hair stirs the waters   As she rides her giant horse   Across the depths of the pond Monica actual   On the first day of school   She smithereened my blue glass gift   And my minute soul   To eye-coloured shards Grit   First long kisses from   The ash-haired girl with her   Bewildering scent of cedarwood.   Asterix was better. I was eleven. Gitti   Strong and relentless   Adolescent love and pain and love   For half a decade we taught each other   How to make our bodies sing. Beate   And then 3000 miles away,   Proud and beautiful,   She bore me a daughter   I was young. Too young

rain rain not in Spain and our house a boat cast in mould drifting across these depths of darkest ash until at last, as of today the air has turned Atlantic for good we’re subaquatic now: you and I adrift in our fog-coloured motorcar cautiously pushing the headlights ahead in a yellow bubble twenty feet across, the world a mystery globe of assumed wood sorrel and olive groves. Platero: and us?

  and so time marches on more kindly so than remorselessly the mandatory years have passed and I look both back and forward now so much learned, so much to pass on on this one and only river of life so much love taken, so much love to give but still: where did you go? the freesias won't bud this year under these pitch-black Atlantic rain clouds wherever you are, and be it in our minds: we're fine. life 2.0 is good to us wish you could see us love, Fred

  furious skytall Atlantic rams grey into white into white into grey sky violence the beach restaurant quivers rumbles no customers but I the world around us onslaught of forty feet tall towering inferno rushes straight at the window across from my half-finished dish of pan-fried fish 'coffee please', my voice kept steady. and the tide keeps rising. mint may, sweet’eart