Love letters of the Hampstead Modernists¹

Love,
       you are pebble-headed
       and starfish-mouthed,
       dark as a lick of brine
       and pocket-smoothed.

That summer
I carried you
                   all up the beach,
beloved as an Octopus Rock –
      as if I might taste you
with these fine nerves           tentacular
           or come to know you
     as I warmed you in my palm.

Later I prepared a box:
         sea urchin spines, crab
                   backs and limp claws,
porcelain-white barnacles
...