A quiet little corner of Kent where clouds, gulls, and little boats gather for their evenings. By railings I stood on chilled legs, watching cumulus billowing above and boats bobbing on wavelings in front, their noses tied to wooden platforms where men can walk in water.
A Man next to me in a black car eating chips. We acknowledged each other. Gull cries, ever gull cries. I think on the year past and the year present, two vastly different Aprils. Bike is ticking, the ticking of hot metal, and a child begins to cry in the distance to my right.
A few lungfuls more and a dozen or so blinks. Back to base. It’s nearly May.
