The intricacy of a body in the dark These are the days of the clouds and colours of his childhood, of the secrets of forgotten garages with unwilling doors and small-paned windows, of the mysteries of broken glass, rust and enigmas of dust, And of the sides of houses too, of shadows leopard-crawling over mossed brick, and cool green thoughts and concrete crumbling to nothingness at the edge of tired swimming pools spun with holiday light. The intricacy of a body in the dark, how it reminds him of a life lived a lifetime away, where memory tastes of salted skin after a day at a beach, part sunlight, part ocean, and at the tip of its tongue the bitterness of its end. He stands, looking out at the waves and last scraps of surfers, imagining someone else watching him flared against sky leaking into cobalt. He has been turning a perfectly good key in a lock over and over his whole life but the door remains locked. He imagines she stands behind the door brushing the years between them from her hair. Now everything is silent and made of first light, except for the sound of that key turning helplessly and the distant keening of gulls. — Stephen Symons
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