Hecuba

I’ve been thinking.
About Boudica’s husband. Prasutagus.
A king. No less.
And who remembers him? No one.

I’ve been thinking about old kings.
Lost kings. Priam. Lear. Solomon.
Prasutagus was a big deal. For a local.
For a man on the ground.
Though a puppet king. Strings pulled by Rome.

And only after he died—
Well, you know the story.
Boudica went out. Horses. Killings.
Sword. Sieges. No-nonsense. Swift.
Epic. That’s what she’s remembered for.

But I imagine him.
On the steps.
Reaching out as she lifts her arms for war.
‘Hey lady! Keep it indoors. Don’t take the streets. You’re stealing my light.’

And he was. Upstaged.
Historically-speaking.
Comically-pastorally.
Tragi-hysterically.
Superseded, evolutionarily.

In the movie he’d be the extra at the back.
A king. No less.
He must’ve wanted to throttle someone.

But who am I to judge.
It’s history now. Yesterday’s news.

And anyway—what I wanted to get down
Wasn’t even that.
It was the photograph.
That was the thing.

I was going through albums.
Through books.
Notes, uploads, best bits.
I thought it was a postcard. A souvenir.
But it wasn’t.

It was stuck out below a ferry timetable.
A footnote. A piece of evidence tacked.
A real photograph. Folded down the middle.
Creased. Imperfect.
A blurred finger top-left.

Still—the sky had intensity.
Bright teal. Rings out. Spring unlimited.
Every mast distinct.
Water sparkling like tinfoil.
Wooden rails painted white.

And you.
Front and centre.
Radiant.
Balancing on one leg.
Head tipped. Laughing.
I don’t think I ever saw you laugh like that.
So at home.

And who’s that guy beside you?
Arm around you.
I point a finger. Accusing. Affronted.
But neither of you see me.

He’s tall. Gangly.
Lopsided grin. Blue sailing cap.
A white anchor stitched in.
You two look made for each other.
Capable. At ease.
Like the world itself was holiday.

Man…
It gets me in the guts.
Every time.

I found the photo last month.
I’m still not happy.
I’ve been wandering the house ever since.

Kitchen window.
Haze. Woodsmoke.
People burning prunings.
Mists and fires of the season.

Apple tree. Bare. Espalier.
Paint flaking on the back fence.
Trees on the drive dressed in silver and gold.
Leaves rattling like dice.

Doves in the paddock.
Never saw them before.
Together for warmth. For protection.
Two bulls across the fence.
I name them Rose and Gildy.
Not mine. But I name them.

In the study—
Afternoon light across the carpet.
Dust motes float where summer ended.
You can see the spot.
Right there.
Where it happened.

I fill hours with lists.
Groceries. Bin bags. Washing clothes.
Ironing. Recycling.

Post-it notes. Tiny ones.
Fluorescent flags litter the table.
Today I found a notebook.
Pasted them in. Facing pages.
Some organisation.

I wander the house packing boxes.
Catch sight of myself muttering in the mirror.
I know I’m rambling.
Avoiding. Wandering. Wondering.
Metering. Muttering.
Whatever.
I know.

But I must tell the story of that photo.
I must.
The only picture from that trip.

And the thing—
I didn’t recognise you at first.
Shameful, I know.
But you looked free.
Normal.
And normal too with someone like him.
So everyday.
That’s what I can’t shake.

When we met—you said no marriage.
You didn’t want a story.
I filled the silence with jokes.
Didn’t help.

You were clear.
You were firm.
Mine being yours, yours being mine—
Pyrrhic. You said.
Outcome outweighs effort.
Resentment inevitable.
To know you at all was passing.
Tangential.
A glimpse.

So the trip was my chance.
Travel might bind us.
So we went.
Conquistador-ed.
Cheap wine. Visitor Centres.
Pastries.
Plans.
Rolling places around like dice.
Rolling around.
I thought it was working.
I really did.
But I was wrong.

We bought ferry tickets.
Island to island.
Archipelago.
Rockpools. Shallows.
Skipping stones. Ripples on ripples.
Feet wet.

We climbed a hill.
I thought shrine.
At the top—only pedestals.
Wildflowers everywhere.
‘This is so you,’ you laughed.

Back on the ferry.
Sun reeling.
Slow to the next wharf.
A pause between us.
I panic.
Read aloud from the brochure.

‘Phoenicians tied logs with reeds.
Square sails. Triangular sails.
Carried them away from shore.
To oceans. Seas.’

Your fingers trailing in the water.
Ripples mixing with the boat’s messy wake.

‘Xebecs. Small, three-masted. Mediterranean.
The sky they sailed—bronze.’

You don’t answer.
Doldrums. Waves in my stomach.

Greek names.
Everything distant.
Far-off. Intangible.
Like stars.
Like Ithaca.
Like Helen.
Like Thrace.
Where Hecuba appeared.

If we pressed on we could catch the last ferry.
One more island.
A push before night.
If we struck out.

I wanted to move.
If not now—never.
I knew it in my bones.
But I didn’t know how to say.

‘We could give it a go,’ you said quietly.

We got home late.
Dark.
Evening with the bodega family above the dock.

We talk noodles. China or Italy?
Pasta Arabic? Spaghetti what?
I think spaghetti Westerns.
Tin spaghetti. Back home first.
You give me that look.

We talk cowboys. Doctors of dice.
Ivories loaded. Guns ready.
Dark games. Clack of glasses.

Table half a door. Bent under bread and wine.
Bananas from the Americas.
Lemons, oranges, Spain.
Plum liqueur, Italy.
We line up.

Cherries. Juice like blood.
Strawberries dipped in chocolate.
Devoured.

Window open.
Harbour sounds crawl up.
Unloading boats.
Cabins creak.
Voices promising cake, toys, pleasures.
Evening thickens.

Children. Wives. Gentry. Gossip.
Smells of cooking.

A record plays.
You raise your eyebrows.
That look.
Eyes on mine.

Morning now.
Phone screen glow.
Restless. Afraid of being seen.
I read we dream two, three times a night.
Each a chapter. Characters. Places.
Half the brain invents. Half lives it.
Wake—and it all becomes one story.
A straight line from a mosaic of sparks.

My eyes square.
This isn’t helping.

Each dawn I feel you slip further.
Becoming distant.
Becoming other.

Milk. Change your pillow.
That’s what the site says.
Uneasysleeper dot com.

Imagine boxes.
Count them.
Imagine holiday.
Take eight breaths.
See celebrities now.
You won’t believe it.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to come back.
Not to this.
But you said the moon.
Stars clear. Work here. Happiness here.
You were right about the small things.
But those warm winds—where are they?

That big love—what use now?
When I saw the photo—
Even after years—
That you knew what you wanted.
And it wasn’t me.
Ice water through me.
Rattled. Shook.

Am I wrong?
I don’t know.
But I made my choice.
Stuck on this black rock.
That’s all I know.

I close my door.
It feels like you’re reaching.
Arms round me.
Here. Still.
Cold. Pale. Testing the room’s width.

You change with morning light.
You have changed.

I must go down.
They’re waiting.
Relatives. Officials.

No time for pondering.
I run my fingers over the photo like cuneiform.
Left to right.
White teeth. Brown skin.
Rails peeling white.
The ink cracks at the fold.
Two halves.

I’d do it again.
I know it in my bones.
The best of me was there.
I know. I know.
Always a step behind.
Never as it was.

I’ve tidied.
As you’d want.
No one would know.
Hands washed. Shirt clean.
Wedding ring polished.

And I am here.
On pause.
Temporary. Temporarily.

Blue cap in my hands.
Anchor frayed.
I’m glad I got this moment.
Even if brief.

I just wanted to capture you.
One more time.
Or try.
At least.