I never could have thought my keyboard transforms so naturally into a grand piano every time I write. The prelude, the exposition, the recapitulation: it's my mind that creates; the fingers execute.

The Isle of Wight & Green Onyxes

Green onyx, jadeite, leopard jasper,
amethyst, choral, lapis lazuli, opal, opalite,

sea-carved with careless precision
in forms and tones of angels, angelfish,

angelus. It’s an island of bounteous
colour, of contours, of churches

washed by shorelines perpetually
agate and Paraiba tourmaline.

The world skips a pulse here,
or breathes that dashed bit more.

The farther we draw the closer it grows,
growing out of the un-hurry its citrine pools

of sun works and waterways,
shoals of feather fungi, the jelly fish,

as though this were all there ever was. The gulls
here, rose quartz and mother of pearl,

unmanned, easy, loping the airways, feeding
on shrimp, on tangled weeds and ocean air

front our ferries across, into the firmament of
blue sapphire, the tanzanite oblivion.

All weekend we’ve been here, driving
from coast to coast

in search of fun and phenomena – phenomena
living here within us, long lain

in hiding, waiting to be stirred to starlet ripples
with the crook of one lone finger,

so svelte and simple, so simple
it births of its own accord auroras out of these

sea fires and light works, out of these
peridot sunshines that sluice

the ruby coasts or the greens
as though hand washed and repainted

to sapper greens, limes, lemonade.
This time I left you behind when I came,

sepia and diffuse upon my bookshelves
and the writing desk. I’ve deleted all texts from

my mobile to snuff out sparks of memory
in this un-wilderness where language could

ignite forked-blue- tongues of thought. But
I’ve kept the emails,

your short notes and the threadbare words
hidden in a folder

I have named ‘Unnamed’ and shelved.