The bosom of green sea heaves,
and today
cold spume trails white rollers
across the bay.
Fresh winds spin sand,
and staring
at roofed sky, rocks look
almost calcified,
and hunch there until dry.
Empty the beach which
myopically views
distant horizon through mist,
still unused
lie two large logs
of make-shift seating we boldly
dragged to an unlit fire.
Stories half-told ultimately
need an ending,
so that we never forget
last summer's affair, and the day
we first met.
Wonderful poem... images reminds me of Dylan Thomas...