An old poem.
Come in to the garden,
watch the black-beaked ships sail,
out of the harbour, out of the stone walls, out of their safety
into the sea.
Rest one hand in my hand,
whilst the storm clouds thicken,
black against the white cliffs, black against the sunset, blacker than our shadows
over the sea.
Wait a while beside me
for the twilight’s fingers,
silent on the pine trees, silent on the red house, silent on our out-breaths,
lighting on the sea.