There you are again at the far end of the empty beach,
scrambling over rocks beneath the abandoned nunnery
painted ice-cream green. Fleet as a greyhound,
tiny as a mote floating in the outer corner of my eye,
matted hair a billowing ghost of rain as the day
folds back into its rookery of clouds.
I’ve caught a glimpse of you before:
a shadow on the wall of empty streets
where silence sounds like noise. Barely noticed,
you stand among stagnant puddles
by the graffiti-etched door in a patina of winter light.
You bear a name you never ask for,
trace the history of longing in your veins,
your lost passions in the March wind.
At night you are both salt and ash.
A low scream in the mirror of the moon.
by Sue Hubbard
From Ink Sweat and Tears