All your days


Not you, but us
moving out of the harbour.
Cold hands haul knots and rope,
we shout ‘Farewell’ and wave and weep
for this day. The horizon will not return us and you will
sleep without dreaming of boats or storms or summer clouds.

Not you, but us
becoming mimes, charades,
our voices gone. Your son
a blur of ladybirds and tricks, his hair
a cloak on wizard shoulders. He’s away
backwards through your garden. Stop. Rewind, rewind

this day. Bring the boat safely in, our faces raw and wet with salt and rage,
our nets alive with your days to give back to you: all your days, all your days.