The Last Refugee

«And it’s also the end of broadcasting for Thursday, the end of broadcasting
for 1970»
«Seven to severe hail, nine, decreasing six in Humber later. Rain then showers,
moderate to poor becoming good.»
«Southwesterly, six to gale eight. Occasionally, severe gale nine»
«At the third stroke, it will be 11:24 and 50 seconds»
«At the third stroke, it will be 11:25, precisely»
«This is the British Broadcasting Corporation»
«At the third stroke it will be 8:57, precisely»
«In north southwesterly, 4 or 5, otherwise variable rainfall, mainly northerly
in the southeast»
«A happy new year to you all»
«At the third stroke, it will be 11:25, precisely»
«Goodnight, everyone»
Lie with me now
Under lemon tree skies
Show me the shy, slow smile you keep hidden
By warm brown eyes
Catch the sweet hover of lips just barely apart
And wonder at love’s sweet ache
And the wild beat of my heart
Oh, rhapsody tearing me apart
And I dreamed I was saying goodbye to my child
She was taking a last look at the sea
Wading through dreams, up to our knees in warm ocean swells
While bathing belles, soft beneath
Hard bitten shells punch their iPhones
Erasing the numbers of redundant lovers
And search the horizon
And you’ll find my child
Down by the shore
Digging around for a chain or a bone
Searching the sand for a relic washed up by the sea
The last refugee