It was the first place we lived together
that white walled top floor flat
in an old Brighton town house.
It was a war zone of cold rooms and drafts.
we’d push newspapers rolled up and folded
into the cracks and gaps to block the blast
from the windows sash when the wind blew in
over the whipped-up roiling crazy white sea
gales that rattled windows and frames and doors.
From our bed on early December mornings
we’d watch a tower crane overhang the Kemptown
road with a Christmas tree sitting on its jib.
Those were mornings of clear skies
after the waves of the gale had receded
the gas fire’s flames flickering low, a mix of yellow and blue,
you played that scratched Baden Powell vinyl record
and the strains of the Samba Triste
filled the wooden floored rooms above Belvedere Road.
In the day we walked the sea front watching crashing waves
stir the shingle while fishermen hauled the keel boats
up through the pounding shore below the kids rides.
our love was fiery then.