Second visit

The inlet’s tide is brimming now,
as we cross the bridge, where yesterday
green-striped mud was probed
by waders’ orange beaks.
For the moon draws all as she swings
            from star to star.

 Then we cross to the island’s Southern shore
and climb its rimming hills.
There, to the left,
I walked alone last year,
washed clean and empty from a day –
no more – of parting tears.

Next down, through sand and muddy strata
to where the tide each day blends with our own
the steps of other couples’ passing feet.
Memory, like sand, knows no succession:
it layers our flowing loves into a richer whole.

 Isle of Wight
June 1, 2004