Yesterday, I watched you high on the headland,
light catching the red speck of your hair
for a moment, then going out. You had climbed
as I sat with our boys on the strand,
taking your own storm cloud into the sky.
The sea was a roar. You stood up there on the edge
of everything. The boys grew anxious. My voice
was too small to travel. The wind ambushed
even what was said amongst ourselves on the beach,
snatching my words of comfort, casting them aside.
I thought I saw the lift of your hair once more
as you shrank back from the face of the wind.
This morning a small plane unzipped the sea
from the sky, as we packed what was left of our holiday
and ourselves into the car for the long journey back.
Now we are travelling through darkness,
our car following its own lights home.