Second
visit
The inlet’s tide is brimming now,
as we cross the bridge, where yesterday
green-striped mud was probed
by waders’ orange beaks.
Then we cross to the island’s
Southern shore
and climb its rimming hills.
There, to the left,
I walked alone last year,
washed clean and empty from a day –
no more – of parting tears.
to where the tide each day blends with our own
the steps of other couples’ passing feet.
Memory, like sand, knows no succession:
it layers our flowing loves into a richer whole.