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 and transparent enough
for light to filter through in
watery brush strokes
We must have looked comical:
two lost landlubbers unable to
take their eyes off sea and shore,
not speaking, not moving, just
standing there, staring
The gulls were shrieking overhead.
One of us said, ‘We’ll remember
this, won’t we?’ The vast
emptiness of it all. The sadness.
The gulls screaming
We knew we were here
on this beach for the last time.
Years later I tried to paint it
but I didn’t put in the people.
After all they weren’t together any more.