Image: © Charles Eastwood
the sun rises
over julia’s balcony
streaming from the east,
honey & lemons from the west
where empty plant-pots sing for geraniums
strong enough to survive the spanish summer
julia’s eyes are gentled
by soft blue morning light
it’s stasis
printed on the surface of passing clouds
the sunlight is eternal
it moves over & under the oleanders
john ashbery walks into my poem
it is the year two thousand and eighteen
my poem will appear in a book called santa lucia
with the opening poem dedicated to julia
who once worked in a museum by the sea in cartagena
when we were young & we fell in love
*
julia wakes up
rinses the darkness from her eyes
we are in madrid, the year is two thousand and twenty-two
rubbish blowing under the streetlights
soft with sentimentality
she speaks to me
charlie, can’t you see how a desert will miss the rain
though some grains of sand have never seen the rain
she says this in spanish
i am am reading barbara, by jaque prevert
it is raining on brest, sans cesse
& i pretend not to hear
julia stirs milk into the pan
folds paper over jack-fruit sandwiches
sweeps the dust from the corners of the kitchen
where sadness lingers, sadness is fragile
in six months i will have an affair
my father will commit suicide
& julia will say i think this now has to be the end
and maybe she suspects the world has broken me
broken into my heart
when i knew i could not could not
if i forgave myself for letting her down
it would only be another cruelty
*
the faithful sun, kisses the sky
she counts her thoughts on her hands
a thought can take years to arrive
years measure distance, not time
julia catches a reflection in the mirror
a man who does not live there anymore
i leave
the sun
i sketch shadows in the ache of after hours
by the velvet underground
caressing the purple hibiscus on her balcony
streaming from the east
honey & lemons from the west
the year is two thousand and six,
i live in almeria
in a small house by the sea
& when i go to sleep i fold my dreams away
under the pillow where no one can steal them from me
i leave a light on, i sleep with the door open
for when moe tucker walks in & whispers
if you close the door
the night could last forever
____
Charlie Baylis is from Nottingham. His poetry has been nominated four times for the Pushcart Prize & once for the Forward Prize. His Spanish translations have been commended in the Stephen Spender Prize. His latest publication is ‘fuck poetry’ (2025). In his spare time he plays chess, supports Nottingham Forest and edits the poetry journal Anthropocene.
