Brighton

stones stroked my hands
smooth shells, mild wind
and no sand
fatty, sweet, and sticky smells
vinegar, candy, cupcakes

eyes closed
and chewing on a tasteful portion
of air, only air
and a tickling happiness
delicate, feeble
like the feathers of seagulls
on the beach
whiter as white
cut out sharply
against the brownish carpet
of seawashed stones

a happiness
mild but soaking
like the summer rain
flaking slowly, shadow-like
from a blueish grey sky

flat on the ground I lay
my jumper a blanket
and a tiny bee that paid me company
afraid to try and find out
she cannot fly
and catching with a longing gaze
in pictures all that hit her ageless face
with beauty and secrets to keep
afraid still to lose it when it sinks in too deep