On Kinghorn Beach

And I heard it all, 

     every word, despite

a tide with the voice of a wrenched oak 

talking over him 

    telling me

what I already knew. 

Three windows up

       past tabloids, blue tack and Kensi Club lace

is where I tried to end it. 

Is where I downed a neighbour’s medicine cabinet. 

Washed the lot down with sterident 

       beaten breast. 

Then returned to my bedsit

        to bed.

It was someone else. 

          Someone else. 

Someone, he said. 

I am better now. 

   Better. 

  Yes.

I closed my eyes 

    went inside

my coat. Head down 

           down into my collar 

down

away from my blue chinned and livid splinter –

his realm.

In the soothing half-light of parka lining 

I sucked on my cold-blooded zip

      its steaky tang mingling 

         with each cirrhotic breath 

from the unscrolling firth.

And I heard it all 

    with no escape –

my calf county down here.

My past too.