She waves. The room fills with a golden cloud that evaporates into a golden
rain that settles into the fabric of the chairs, the rugs on the floor.
Long after she's gone the glitter sticks to the heels of our shoes, the pores
of our skin.
With glitter on my soles, I walk to the library. One of those converted churches
with high windows and stained panes shaped like temples.
The smell of books. The 3pm clientèle,
out of work, down at the heel.
In a corner, local history. I find what I'm looking for.
Or it finds me.
I remember when this was first written.
The digs, the jabs. The copper discs
falling from the trees. Grey skies,
the wind blowing in across the Chesil.
At the seas edge a wooden bed.
A man asleep, breathing out a golden cloud,
glitter in his beard.