Across from the picture windows
of a 1930s hotel, light plunges
at cove water, digs up soft turquoise
while you’re labouring up
its bracketing cliffs.
And this is our beginning,
some thirty years ago,
chance meetings, quirks
of fate, endurance
in the face of uphill climbs.
Do we have to go back over
all that now? I doubt it.
Tidal stones shoulder parked boats.
We should walk by this stream –
at the stile we’ve already forgotten
