I fall asleep to the sound of waves.
They seep into the first lapping dreams.
Take me back to the shores of West Africa.
To Dauda and Fatmata
dipping toes and throwing stones,
the throbbing whip of rotor blades,
the shells of metal,
the searing heat,
my elements.

I wake up tired
and force my rusting lungs to inhale.
Shivering as I survey the rain, the grey,
the postmen in the street,
I am furious to be here.

I remind myself to be thankful.

I am in a stand-off.
At least, I suspect I am.
The first to speak loses.
But it could be
that I am the only one here now.
I am in the dark.
I do not know.
I think of her too much
and cannot drown her out in waves.

I fear I have tricked myself into survival
by investing in the lie
that killing time is waiting.
Each day, getting through,
is waiting,
biding my time.

But waiting for what great event?

There was a time
when I would force matters.
Make my luck,
seek out my change,
shatter the grey,
flee the rain.
It was a strength,
built on a lie.
When it was revealed
that I cannot change everything,
perhaps cannot truly change a thing,
my confidence was shattered.

And that, our Graham,
is the heart of the matter.