And the busy waves,

lap, chat and slap

on this whimpering, grey veil of a morning, mid-March in the wet rain.

In the seeping wet rain, past shed and boathouse, walking steadily upwards,

under bowed and broken trees

that pose like questions to another age.

Under branches offering succour to raven, crow and curlew.

The writhing, brain-creased mudflats, fast the reaching tide as slow mists muffle

the boundaries of sky and sea …

and we … we, in our anniversary walk, urge aching bones along moss

draped, mist moist, sponge paths,

soaking up stories of lovers lost and long gone.

The track sighs in response to each certain footfall and the sighs merge with the shushed waves and

sharp calls of the coastal birds. 

We sit, grazing on solitude,

… connected.