Lido

Mourning might become Electra,

but all this grieving is becoming a drag

and no one has died.

And you’re soldiering on too,
by the lido, where the ladies
are more naked than they should be,
with children  about,

with diamonds twinkling in the moss,
with pool dreaded hair,
                              like soaked shoelaces

shedding the weight of its water
imperceptibly, in barbecue sun,

where the chips in art deco tiles,
are forgiven by the transformative
bonhomie of surprising summer

whose welcome return, 
overlooks the shortcomings of the past
just as it tries to turn its brief seasonal
flashbulb on a subject
backlit by interfering light.

Sometimes we find the life we set out
in very neat plans but which we didn’t
write down, is not what was ordered
in the mind’s eye.

We were perhaps a boss-eyed
giant with two heads,

troubled by

conflicting visions,

until in madness, he rends himself

on a cliff face, in full view, while the lithe
unimpressable girls of summer look up 

and blink, at the shadow making sun.