Late evening, sea-blown rain. Light
falls through misted glass. Sky’s
a gull grey, rain’s a flurry of feathers
brushing the iron roof. Sparrows’
monotonous cheep and the soft
rustle as you turn the pages
of your book, make silence deep.
Waves wash the beach. The sound
licks memory’s wounds. Emptiness.
Exiled distance. Lonely space.
Unuttered grief the canvas stretched
taut across the frame of years.
Nine o’clock. Night shadows fill
the clustering eucalypt and pine
but sea and sky, wet through,
still gleam with light. Gently
our cabin rests on its dune-grass bed.
Sheltered, warm by the fire,
we do not speak - hopes, fears.
Fragile beads, moisture from our breath,
glitter on the window pane.