Out there,
among gunmetal peaks,
the sea’s churning spume
and spray, its tumbled swells,
your memory drifts
invisible as the horizon,
yet there,
small as existence,
as air in lungs
under breathless immersion,
your essence, ebbing,
slipping from sight,
while here,
under a slate hard sky,
its indictment of rain,
a persistent wind
buffets the cliff top,
nuzzles gently at my back.
© John Hawkhead 2011