Jessie decided that the winner is Olivia Sprinkel for her poem Burial.

Well done, Olivia, and thanks everyone for your contributions. I enjoyed them all.

Burial

I toss my shoes through my hair.
No need for those, where I’m going, there.
I’m done with shoes, I’m barefoot free.
My toes expand and sink, sandily.

Morning: I return and scan the shore.
Premature – to think shoes needed no more.
Since then the tide has rolled in and out,
Sharpening shells to razors, cold as doubt.

I sit, sink, in wide horizon of sea.
Then waves leave a gift of shoes for me.
Blue flip-flops moulded for giant feet.
I dig. They are now buried six foot deep.

I was out at Porto once, in St John Street, Clerkenwell. It was on expenses as I was treating a film production company who had just given a talk at our place.

We had a boozy, noisy, enjoyable meal but I kept getting distracted by the couple at the next table.

They were old, but not yet senile. Married, but not to each other.

They talked in hushed whispers, you sensed that something wasn’t quite right. I strained hard to hear. I was desperate to know what was wrong. Curious about the scene unfolding right next to me. Maybe I could help in some way?

I got back into my table’s conversation. Something about a Director with a fondness for honey, but not on toast.

I glanced over. The man was distinguished-looking, famous maybe? But not particularly well-dressed. The woman was immaculately turned out, a former prize filly or perhaps a show pony, recently put out to grass – the glue factory just visible on the horizon, perched on the edge of a fragrant meadow.

He, on the other hand, wore battered old brown shoes. Cool specs, but definitely last year’s fashion, if not the year before – even a previous decade maybe?

He was eloquent, from what I could hear, but perhaps had fallen on hard times. But I noticed that he paid the bill. A gentleman of the old school variety. Actually, thinking about it, he was probably on good money, ran his own business, a graphic design agency perhaps, given where we were that night.

Yes definitely:
Good money – 2 women = 0 money.

They left and I returned to our conversation. Something about a Producer who thought safe-sex meant never giving your real name.

I paid and we got up to go and I noticed the old man had left something behind. The sole of his right shoe was still there on the floor of the expensive, fashionable restaurant.

‘He’s lost his soul’ I said to myself, then dismissed the thought for being too corny.

I thought of him walking home…

Not noticing at first, preoccupied with love’s faltering peculiarities. They kiss goodnight. A quick squeeze maybe and the stirring of something ancient down below. But nothing more. Not tonight at least.

She jumps in a cab, he waves goodbye. Heartfelt, but half-hearted. Wanders off, not paying attention, then turns back realising he’s headed in the wrong direction.

It starts to rain, softly at first, he feels the dampness seeping through up into his toes, then finally notices his right-shoe sole is missing.

He’s lost his sole someplace. He can’t think where. He stumbles home, finally unlocking the front door as quiet as a mouse, tempted by the cheese, caught in a trap…