Against cold, shimmered slabs
I listen for memory – of you.
We have an oak bench on the shore.
Can I draw you a chorus of tides
confused by your absence, to turn
without purpose in lonely silence?
Absence is dry wrack, then spendthrift
replaces the gaps with pink knots
until hope yellows the broom
with your open arms warming me.
I’m sitting on our bench: counting
the clouds passing, uncertain
of the distance, wary of the gaps
in the unfold of slow water
where shadows loom
larger than the mountains reach.