Newgale
(for Phillip Cockwell)
My friend will die today. Unexpectedly.
But for now, there is still a breeze.
Across the beach, people stretch out on towels.
Roasting. A lizard vanishes across the track.
The ground is hard-trodden, cracked,
speckled with sun-hats and walking poles.
Somewhere further up there is a hole.
A wall of flowers nodding.
I cut from the path, scratch through brambles,
clamber over boulders. Ease into the sea.
Ferns uncurl. No faster, no slower.
Just as they always have done.
I am caught by a column of flat stones
balanced precariously.
The breeze has stopped.
I place a single white rock on the top.