DELIRIUM

“Blue moon …”

Midnight on the sun-terrace,
by Prestatyn’s shore, shiver slips to sweat,
frost to flame. Ague - an archaic word
for old bones in an aging frame.
A rusting fence and a forlorn flagpole
supports my body’s slump,
my rambling thoughts scaffolded
by a tired refrain wired
in a lunatic loop

 “… you saw me standing alone …”

Up, in the black on black on black
night sky a single light lifts my eyes:
the moon, itself a pallid scuffed disc,
has gained an iridescent aura
within a gilded circlet edged electric blue.
I raise my glass of blue moon to view
and the nacreous pinks and peaches
wink violet and blue and eau-de-nil.
A toast to you my Cyclops moon!
The ice cubes clink applause
in tune to my shaking hand.

Below, tired from the far transatlantic fetch,
and the tumult of the turbulent Irish Sea,
the surf stumbles and slips on the shingle.
The crests are barely seen - a deep slate blue
against the unrelenting darkness
save for the intermittent wink of a ship
describing the lost horizon.
Even the wave-tip’s voice is muted
an echo of the sluggish viscid tides
of my silted clogged-up lungs.
Another cerulean toast to distant seas
and warmer lands.
 
“… without a dream in my heart …”

Behind me, sensed rather than seen,
the great bulk of Snowdonia hulks
and leans towards the shore
though in truth it seems more a guardian
than a threat. Fever heat hits again
and sweat breaks out to mingle
with the ice of the sea’s salty spray,
A shiver strikes up the band of ice cubes.

Silence again. Then the sharp clear crack
of a dog-fox’s bark high up the hill.
We wait, him and me, and wait. First faint,
then nearer, the vixen’s high-pitched triple yip
sends an invitation from a leaf-lined earth.
One exultant yelp and he sets off dreaming
of musky muzzle-tailing, consummation
and cosy corner curls with his new companion.
Good for you, my totem spirit beast
- a blessing and a toast in Luna azuline

“… without a love of my own …”

“Sir … please” - even two words betray
the Baltic origins of barmaid Chrystiina
- with two ‘i’s in tiina and a ‘y’ in chrys
She turns my face, concern scribed in her eyes 
and on her scrunched-up brow. She has a pleasant face,
round and jolly - but her made-in-Estonia eyes!
So pale, hardly even the lightest blue
and fringed by frosty white lashes.
“Please,” she repeats, “You are not well!”
She places the back of her hand
against my head as a wife or mother would.
“So hot!” she chides, “I will bring your drink to your room”
“I must get you to bed soon”
I grin. She blushes
“Sir… I didn’t mean …!”
I assure her that I’ll manage fine,
and carry my nightcap to my room. Alone.
I have a hot date, pre-arranged,
with sweet and sensual words:
solace neatly stacked 
for such sorrowful solitary times

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Cover picture:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/7911705@N07/2245304778/