Before you leave, before the sea returns,
we draw out our walk as far
from houses and the spire as we dare,
collecting samphire,
salt jade for the passage out.
It grows on mud between the hulls
where broken boats have gone to grass,
become the settled parishes of wood and weeds
I hoped would anchor us.
And still we speak of journeying and home
in port and starboard words
until the pilot buoys and off-shore lights
begin to roll the estuary tar-sleek,
a metalled road beneath first stars.
Nightfall on the longest day
– it doesn’t fall. Detaches,
lifts the warmth away.