You kiss the tops of my closed hands, the mottled scarf round, a hand-fasting

Where little triple diamonds sit, it stands like a marriage 

Our walk round the sea brimmed with its longings and its blue remedy 

I am peering into our brief lives like Ægir’s wife and her sea fury

what’s lost is lost 

May the mead of poetry find me still 

I make a new dream for us to take refuge from the ceaseless forlacht, the downpour 

Which has so much fecundity in it, and makes the land born with fresh dew 

But never for us, though we bring it from the depths of our beings and the depths of arcadia 

All that is bright with vivacity and lush as the senses are lush belongs to us 

Though you were made for it, though you throng like the sea

I cry and the salt is the same.