From mist that rises from the surf below
the rocks here and along this scarp are wet
It pains me deep; I muse but never get
an answer, of why she decided to go
the way of ghostly brume, fading like
she never was here leaving just a trace
of wetness; tears on the stone’s sad face
I lean to windward on this rugged dyke
against the sea and I remember the
brief walk of joy together; we went near
the golden gates of perfect fealty dear,
You said, I will be here above the sea