Cove At Newhaven

Between rocks the colour of dried blood -
the colour of her lips - the cove recollects.

Empty shells drag across the brown sand,

writing messages eyes will never read.

Waves gather to the cove's heart; she
embraces each prodigal laughing as he 

races into the sandy bosom then retreats 

with flooded memory of why he first fled. 

There is a time and a place for everything - even regret.

We parked the car. Slipped on our bums down the dead
grass slope to the lip of white foam water pursed
to spit us out no matter how many times as pale seals
we dived into the underworld and laughed in explosions
of surrender. We watched the drops of seawater -
speckled diamonds that hung in the watercolour blue sky
to catch the sunlight from your turned away eyes - fall;
languid fingernails of a god’s sad hand as he lays down
his trident, collects stories as seaweed to stroke between fingers
lost in a time, lost in the erosion of once powerful words.

The small cove, naked between mangrove’s hunger
and rock’s anger, a kiss of sand, a memory
of what has passed, a soft invitation to stop the journey
and immerse forever in salt water’s promise to cleanse.