A Poem by Matthew Paul

The Island

Like Drake’s horde singeing the King of Spain’s beard,
A crowd of us binged across on the ferry for a febrile
Long weekend in your brother’s partner’s father’s hotel.

Saturday morning brought Princess Di’s funeral. I lurched
Into the sea at Sandown, as if swimming fully-clothed
Were à la mode—even we republicans sensed weirdness

Maraud. The honesty box on the bar choked with notes.
Mid-row, you let slip that you were pregnant. We broke
Our journey home for a night in a sinking guesthouse:

At breakfast, the landlady said, like I were a mutineer,
That another veggie had stayed there once, but doubtless
Grown out of it since. You, we, lost the baby. The seabed,

Enfolding a queen conch pearl, slid away beneath our feet.

Matthew Paul hails from South London and lives in South Yorkshire. His second poetry collection, The Last Corinthians, was published by Crooked Spire Press in 2025, following The Evening Entertainment (Eyewear Publishing, 2017). He is also the author of two haiku collections published by Snapshot Press and has contributed to the Guardian's 'Country Diary' column. www.matthewpaulpoetry.blog