Thursday 8th March


There’s a delicate brown stain around the rim of my cup where
lips used to be. A familiar taste of time in hiding. A wooden floor
surounds us as far as the eye can see – skirting board on the horizon.
An ocean sanded by the feet of thousands delivers messages. Voices carried in
the clatter of cups, washed up on the shore of my desert island kingdom.
Next to me, gathered around a table, two bright-eyed boys sit in wonder
as a girl with tattooed arms holds court.