An ending: the night falling, softly
indigo over Clontarf Beach.
Human activity roughed in, abstract:
inside the rim of winter — the two of us
moving slowly, and further distant
an old man, flying a box kite.
We navigate unseen forces, gain
ground and lose a little, holding fast to
familiar. The spigot of night turns
a little further, floods out the sand,
the vast dark of the ocean. The kite dips
and twists — stamps jellyfish angles
on the yawn of sky. Tectonics shift,
push the current of our transition,
all of it, invisible to the naked eye.
We own a forgettable middle distance.
Along the Hornibrook Bridge, lights
flicker and flare — metaphors for exits:
the bay, gathering silence in its lap,
the navy hospital folds of evening
tucking our loose ends into place,
cutting free our lengthening strings.