A Navy Skirt

A wet and house-bound day at the end of July:
we meet briefly and kiss
among the coral islands of old clothes.
You are clearing the wardrobe. Life’s come to this,

this vital reassessment in the encrusted ocean
of our bedroom. A navy skirt lies on the floor
as it lay years ago near a glass of wine.
A purple tie-dyed blouse is torn

from your life. The scattered black and green kelp
of tops and trousers, frayed sweaters, that were
part of my love for you are helped
into the oblivion of black bags. The shore

is littered with your former selves. Lovers
I touched have been consigned to dust, to sand
and water. I knew your moods by their textures.
Your changing patterns I watched, to understand

which good moment to ask a favour. So much
was granted in the licence of clothes: sex,
a soul to speak with, anecdotes against loneliness.
Now the ocean takes all your polo-necks

and lace collars. The ground is littered
with the left-overs. You’ve fulfilled the chore
of coming into focus. You offer, again, a brief kiss.
Whole futures surge in to your tidied space.

from Mr Dineen