The Poetry Society

An empty bed, sun stripping

the bay, already the steady insinuation

of ascending heat.

We drag our bags to the car

wind down windows,

throttle slowly to the harbour

where we hand in keys and fishermen

smoke a last cigarette, staring at the sea

which carried away their lives.

The road is a hasty lick of tar

above the Med, sticky as a toad's tongue

taking us hostage at every bend

and swirl.

Soon we'll be knuckling our eyes,

breakfasting on café solo at Portbou;

then the gendarme flipping our ID

over the border into France,

your tanned arms at the wheel,

the day so lovely with loss

we hardly talk.

Later our plane will lift us into drizzle,

over the Channel's dull, crinkled foil,

the Saxon fields of Kent.

Another day of driving north

then Yorkshire towns and hills,

their stone capes drawn tight against rain

and too much hope.

Not yet:

a kestrel's compass needle flickers

over the bay's salvation of calm,

its plumage blistering in scorched air,

our wheels squirting stones

from the road, the sea glittering

in shattered chains of light.