The blue table cloth on the balcony is wash-faded,
on the water the boats are dry with heat,
clear voices, unintelligible, are rising up from the beach.

Across the port, the peninsula has been scooped out
by some great rolling storm surge.
Shorn into cliff face
Tufts of scrub and rock are dug in like fingernails.

The sea has dried your curls into tight ringlets
amber and brass, they fall to your shoulders like
chains.
You leave the chair and now I can see in it, in the marks on the fabric,
the pressure left by other bodies.

On the white-washed wall there’s one tile, just one,
full and brown and sea-green like a sapling.

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