The sun always grabs us by surprise
its yolky wash on a pub wall
the clumsy spill round the black legs of café tables.
it rains so frequently it’s like the sea
trying to climb out of its skin. The beach
is a runnelled grey, an old man’s face in cardiac arrest.
we have stopped being pretty, all of us
too many pills and pill-packs embarrass our pockets;
the future served up three times daily after meals.
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