White noise of wind
sliding over wildflower-tops.
Knowing a thing by its effects.
Silent trails – an absence
of the coastal grass, or the only way
to what’s next? The blank space
from there to here – our bereft.
You stood by me; you stand.
That matters too. Letting
the image crumble. The sea
taking its edge, cliffs disappearing.
And still we stand on this new form –
the headlands, our new ground.
Tears of rain or sea. Our common water.
Tides revealing themselves only
when they reach their end.