Starched white colonial pants, cravat -
You look like Sunday at Brighton -
he uncovered white, black swim trunks,
laid on the glare of Changi Beach.
Less a tyrant then, sky undone,
lone lazy cloud, stationary
blue distance. Sea-baste, sand-crumbed,
I'll show you 'anaemic', seasoned,
he roasted eight thousand miles from home,
perfect Yorkshire, afternoon's baked apple.
Done or overdone, too pasty,
what difference does cinnamon make.
Night, the roof dervish um'd and ah'd,
once-over mattress an oven.
Cold dreams made for the shower hit
concrete, the boiled lobster's white
moment, crimson blackout. Barely
visible now, nineteen fifty-eight,
punctured lip, chipped teeth, beneath
a tiny v, well-done, mild-coffee, au gratin.