At times you would come and stand here, eyes closed,
not speaking, facing the sea. Above you,
the sky would unfold its dark rorschach of
clouds, until the storm washed away the stain.
At such times the wind would barter silence
with the plummet of great wings sheltering
from the sea squall, the sadness creeping in
and out with the wave, insistent as rain.
And now only the granite will recall
what you would have forgotten: looking up,
when you would find yourself suddenly there
at the edge, stumbling like a ghost unchained:
Wandering in the spray, never where you’d been,
never where you'd thought that you would be.