No one trawls in this morning’s surly,
barely purling, grey foot wash;
only the toys of coddled children drag
in sand beneath a breakfast tabletop.
Between you and the gloss of plate glass
telescopic zoom there’s a slipway,
silver to horizon. Way out
drifting, shoals of misty shipping, and your
one fantasy of Africa ahead,
a flamingo skyline and Zanzibar.
You’re almost floating, yet moping
not ten yards over a graceless
cashier’s shoulder, the undeflectible
banality of a car congested street.
Latte at the Edge of the Indian
1 December 2013