When all the fuses blew

There is a man wearing shorts, holding a large multi-coloured golf umbrella.

I watch him out the window of the cafe, the cafe that plays the terrible music, terrible loud.

The man behind the counter sings along to the adverts, not the songs in-between

And outside the rain pours and pours in incredible streams,

As the sailing boat, all sails tucked away,

Rolls incredulously under the rain and the thunder

Claps cut through the air

Whilst you smile, leaning back in your plastic chair

And we drink chipped mugs full of tea,

You admit to infidelities, one two and three

(The numbers rise as the rain adds to the sea).

The man alone at a table behind sits huddled over his tea,

Hi-vis jacket gleaming under its own coat of work-hard dirt.

The little boy behind you clutches his spoon mid-way down the handle, as if it belongs to a giant, and gobbles his pudding as if it belongs to another who might come to reclaim it at any moment.

His mum peers intently out of the window, as if she is willing the rain to wash something unwanted away outside.

But perhaps I paint her a colour to match my own, so I am woven into a patchwork pattern, threadbare but not solitary.

Earlier, in the sunshine, we told each other stories about the sea and the seashells.

We played on the sand until the sea moved in and the sky drew down curtains of hot heavy darkness

And the final act was all melodrama and thunder and rain that seemed to spell the end of the world;

At least the end of our world.

And as all the fuses blow, up in the sky,

I feel the sorrow in my stomach up and twist and lock me into a place I don’t want to be.

I know that you don’t believe that this is “goodbye” (the same as we've said so many times);

You don’t believe me, but I'm saying it;

Please let’s turn in. Fold. Let’s fall in with the broken sky.