Rolled out by the retreating sea,
the sand lay wet, like
unbleached linen on wash-day
reflecting the heavens in its
wrinkles and shallow pools.
Over us the great lift of the sky,
pale blue, stonewashed denim,
thin, pale worn and transparent enough
for light to filter through in
watery brush strokes
We must have looked comical;
two lost limpets unable to take
their eyes off sea and shore,
not speaking, not moving, just
standing there, staring.
The gulls were laughing overhead.
One of us said ‘we’ll remember
this, won’t we?’ The vast
emptiness of it all. The sadness;
the gulls screaming.
Of course, it wasn’t the sadness
of sea or sand, but of being there,
for a last time. I tried to paint it years later,
but I didn’t put in the people. After all,
they weren’t together anymore.