The arch-light at the end of the view

from my door is

weather-bitten, with mossed steps,

beneath the thumbprint of moon

(the stone, in the fruit

of the afternoon).

Sideways I glance,

over the hedge;

there, spring has hit,

and apple-tree, honeysuckle

and lacquered gate,

preen idly.

 

I remembered the last time,

your hands closing both of mine,

as we stretched time to infinity,

playing at hearts and crosses

down in the cove with sand,

salt, rock, worn soles, wreckage.

Taking home the timber,

laying on the ground.

The film now wrapped, my mind

an open fire,

where I've piled the remains, and

the dusk sun burns

my eyes to cinders;

the children from next door come,

to root eager

through the debris.