The sea seeming over full, two miles walked
one toward our past, the other back again.
As I think of it now there’s hardly a sound
or my mind supplies a tangle
of nothing against the ocean noise.
I see houses where we used to stay
—sweet memory, then the sting
of sunlight, this burning salt
closing my eyes as it did then.
I’d pretend to be sleeping beside you
and not to notice when you left
for the water where you were always at home
and gone further than fear would ever allow me.
Tom Driscoll Writing 