Thin moments gone forever
reflect falsely in what we saved and unfold:
the shine of a postcard of the place in Summer
while we were there in Winter
and the light was greyish.
Cliffs and rocks caught our attention
and the smell of a foreign meal,
but gulls of the kind we knew
reminded us that we were not there for ever.
The sunset washed ashore to die at our feet.
I found a writing pen with the ink dried up
but it had such lovely colour, teal,
and you captured sounds from that place,
they danced on your tongue in a pirouette,
only to jump ship the moment we left Britain.