Howard Firkin
for Jack and Alison
Like washed-out bunting silver gulls
            are strung along
the shark net’s dorsal curve, and hulls
      of dinghies roll their song.
A yacht tugs softly at its mooring arc;
its riding lights small crescents in the dark.

The day’s last footprints sweep around
            the blade of sand.
Two voices rise in curves of sound
      like stones thrown from the headland
and laugh at lies that neither yet believes.
The lipper gently rustles new moon leaves.

Along the sand the sea has scrawled
            unmessaged lines.
It croons its idiot lullaby
      in words it can’t define.
I turn and return slowly through the dark.
Each point’s the turning point of every arc.