I remember those long winding summer days, waking to dawn’s tread on the shingle
When we’d brown our sleeves under that flaming plate – the lamp for the land
Then, perching idly amongst the shore bidden Amaranths, we’d wait
Listening for the tide to knock on night’s door, watching for that dark, velvet drape to hang
Where moths had eaten holes light snuck through – we called them stars.
And we’d wonder at times like these,
until sleep stole silently upon us,
At how someone had gone to so much trouble to make it all