For him, memory has been like the
It comes and goes by moonlight,
controlled by the whims of a shifting world.
Sometimes, when it's late and dark
it roars like high tide,
flooding the house, drowning him.
He used to cry. Now, he thinks, he's back on dry land
but then the wind blows in
Atlantic clouds, and a snatch of her. The little girl
who never came home.
The red coast still hangs in the hall where he put it
when they gave it back to him, brushed
If he looks at it he knows he'll drown.
The world is his lifebelt, a lighter place
where ghosts fade to watery shadows, white
flecks churning in the water.
A man stands on a headland, but it isn't him.
Perhaps it's someone he knew long ago, when he was
and a little girl in red ran ahead of him
Now that man has nothing
left but endless days, to stand, staring, into the