We sit in the still
and through tiny buffeted windows
watch the stubborn shore arrest the fierce sea.
An old clock tocks as slow as winters
as we recall the beach of crowded summers
your name whispers in the cold wind
and the scurrying dunes cry to you
from the solstice of your gloomy sleep.
A large coat and a spiralled scarf
it could be done.
Stout boots and a willing heart
to trudge against the bickering wind
blustering in its niggling argument
far into the sea.
We could fall and rise like waves
stumbling on towards those distant lights.
I never thought our steps
could be this close
as we huddle
cowered against the wind
and in a tiny distance
the gale rips up our prints
as if no foot had ever trod.
Yet behind our watering eyes
We know that once two footsteps touched
Our shoes kissed
in the wild wet and wintry night
There will be warmth
in the accordion blessed bar
with pipe smoke leering to the rafters
and yellow light from candled glasses
casting tall shadows
of the shawled women
waiting for the long lost sailors’ return.
Shall I be a sailor then
to board the narrow boat of your body
in all the crash and yaw
the swell and deep
the thunder and breech
the pounding and clamour
until in the safe soundings
in the harbours of morning
we drift like flotsam
on the shoreline of deliverance.
And driving home on a damp Sunday
will we marvel at the twisting rain
and how the tiny ship of our footsteps
survives the howling gales
and the all wild wide oceans of our watery ways
A weekend break in the bleak mid-winter but why have they taken the break and did they achieve what they wanted?