Blue Fortuna

A broken plastic sword handle,
bobbing,
half sunk

“Look at the minnows in the weir. But it’s mostly pike”

Vietnamese wrappers, the ink not yet bleached away.
The weed we’d carried for half a mile,
wrapping itself around the front.

A weeping willow,
reflected in the water.

The yellow, vicious feet of fighting coots.
The cries as they charged.

Inane pleasantries from people we passed.
A pigeon showering under a broken pipe.

The silence of the grand union.


None of these things remind me of you.


The white flowers.
The alternating on-
off-
on pattern of the bulbs in the electric chandelier.
The jarring organ notes.
The berobed cunts, silently blessing wine to a musical accompaniment
like a deservedly lost silent film.

The blue stained glass, which I am told:
“Could be the pale colour of her eyes”
Which I am told:
“You see, everyone’s life can be a short story or a poem”
Which I am told,
with a shrug of confident simplicity
by the man who will write such a thing
that we would have laughed at,
whilst shoving fingers down our throats.

Your mother’s insistence of your entry into the kingdom of heaven.


None of these things remind me of you.


A bottle of lambic from a filthy corner shop.
The cork, torn out with my teeth and spat across the road.
Swigging straight from the bottle in a display of Englishness
That impressed and amused us both.

The molten cheese from crepes that dripped down our hands and legs
As we fought time and the opening reels
And brought us disgusted looks
from the well-to-do
who would sit next to us

The silent hand gestures made by your friends
as they fought laughter
at the back of the church.

The woman at the Franprix who would never smile.

Two packs of blue Fortuna
from the tabac
at the end of l’hopital

Is there anything of hers that you want?

To gambol
Rien
in the fields
Rien
once more
Rien