Moyle by Howard Wright

The weather seeks us out like some loathsome,
grey faced monster… No home to go to,
nightmare rocks lean into house-high waves,
and we are still afraid at the glimpsed horror
at their cetacean mouths. Fingers in our ears,
we couldn’t banish the band playing downstairs
all night. Instead we sleep through the next day
of castles that rip the black line of the north coast.
We used to skim flat stones there, me and you,
and amazingly fail to our heart’s content.
The angle was too steep or too shallow for you
with that flimsy side-handed throw, and me
with pebbles that lacked an edge, and anyway
my strength was in the other arm, the one
I held and swung you up with, feet first,
onto that dolorous carousel just as the music started.
You waved back at every ride-by of those
fabulously scary unbending horses, your painted
smile always finding me there, like now,
shouting between the remains of my hands.

From Poetry London

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