4 September

Hard to hear clearly

on that breezy shore:

shouted anniversary wishes –

and intermitting signal, what’s more.

Only now the frail connection’s gone

and I’m browsing crowded stalls

for postcards, magnets, souvenirs,

it’s as if a few words of broken language

might come and catch me unawares –

because, yes, love, I’m wondering again

at resurgent silences, old scenes,

here, on the continent’s edge,

in this late-summer seaside town.

*

You’d never seen

quite so many bicycles, racked

as if for the start of a race

or quick getaways.

Sulphur light and thin fog

colluded in that clogged lane,

devices of a mood

which had closed in too soon

and made little sense

from where I stood,

doing nothing  

to convince you or distract.

*

Without time to grow sure

of street plans, orientations,

alleyways’ jags and shortcuts,

I could be here for hours

and none the wiser for it:

a day of places I’ll not find again.

From a terrace let into the castle wall,

the bay’s streaked by what’s left of the sun.

First promenade lights are turned on –

and here I am, love, frightening myself

with thoughts of how close we’ve come

to there being no way back at all.

Tom Phillips, January 2014