Then when it was done I stood and cried,
and the easterly – always the bloody easterly –
tore at my face and the tears were just salt streaks,
and I saw her red coat recede, saw her shapely legs snap forward –
almost a sashay – and the coat blow and lift and her hair riffle, and
I knew it was over, and before it began.
She walked in and strode out and salted air flung itself across the coastal street.
We are too weak for this; young men bend in the wind: lofty ideas and no spine; big ideas about love and loving, and nothing to offer but hollow talk and rushed love.
When she was gone – when the red of her coat was a dot – I turned and shouted,
and the rage was caught on the easterly, cold and off a sullen sea, and taken, like her, to a new place