Jill Jones
			Beach picnic The old hotel hugs the beach front                imagining the high path to the lighthouse               where they gaze. There¹s no question of drowning               though she’s heard. With tattoos of the living still printed               on her cheek her body, starred with salt, the horizon               detains her. It¹s no matter no-one writes, that Europe               still waits. They said there was no cure, no antidote               for the glare sold out of sunscreen, cafes               closed up. Palm branches rattle in a taut drum               of wind Out of habit and greed, stray dogs               seem bored. Hold back hills, roads or rivers, or stop               the season. Neither will she give in. If all seems               too much on a checked cloth, a coloured grid, stories               she's laid out. Destined crumbs for the birds as they              hurry the air. She folds up the blanket knowing              no-one is watching what she wants              the resistance of wings.