Nigel Jarrett
Lynton Sands
This summer I know what is going on.
You run for the ball, laugh with the kids,
But she has tunnelled beneath your poise.
I can tell from your old-salt’s sea gaze
That you want to be elsewhere, wish
To smite the alliance of courage and hurt.
You read but no pages turn.
I pick up your book, The Great Gatsby,
Wondering if I might hitch a lift
On sentences that trail your thoughts:
But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot;
The most grotesque and fantastic conceits haunted him.
Words I loathe – tryst, affair – spin like midges;
I feel tethered full-fathom, my hair streaming
While the wavy multitude kiss themselves quick.
At the end I, too, shall withdraw to the swell,
Legs astride the killer-whale inflatable you bought,
Fighting its comic intent to squirt from under me.
Page(s) 26
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