Summer sea whirled white
Barracuda hunting tuna
Fingers cover eyes
Bent knee at sunset
Hot tears as you slowly walk
Farewell, love, goodbye
Early snow this year
My head against your shoulder
Our last breath a sigh
Sea
What did you do this morning?
Run. Coffee. Shower.
Coffee. Sea. Coffee. Shower.
Breakfast. Coffee. Sleep.
his name inked
To the cliff divers, scars on ankles and legs are badges of honour. The razor-sharp rocks take their toll, a thread of blood through clear water sniffed up by the eels and sea spirits.
Yesterday Marco wavered in his concentration. When he pulls himself back up to the ledge, a vein or a muscle in his neck twitches. Blood flows from his shoulder. Leon 2012. Only part of his oldest tattoo can be seen but his brother is never forgotten. His memory is in Marco’s hot, scarred heart, his name inked into his skin.
Every morning of every summer they meet
Every morning of every summer they meet. Same beach, same time. “So, we’re all here, are we? Nobody’s died in the night?” And with that Luigi and the others smile and stand thigh-deep in the water and frown at clumsy splashing swimmers. Sometimes the women begin to sing.
G was the first to dive
G was the first to dive from above our heads today. Unlike in the November snow, he left no tracks. The fizz of where he hit the water died, the ripples faded and lapped against the rocks. No trace. But the rocks are wet until the sun rises above the lip of the inlet.
white-haired fisherman
white-haired fisherman
tattooed divers rock his float
playing, surviving
Boys diving at Acquaviva
Sharp silhouette diving
Split second swift wing curving
Needle straight into the deep
Port
“Port wine is red and port has four letters like left.” For five years, Mick didn’t swim out to where Grandad’s boat had gone down.
On the winter beach
She screws up the letters he had written her, page by single page. Burning them would still feel too final, the ash too easy to smooth between fingertips. She imagines the powder-grey prints she would leave on the banister.
So crushing the letters is the best course of action. The only way. One by one she drops the pieces of paper and the wind sends them skirling across the winter beach.
She feels bad, of course she does. If the world were normal, she would never drop what in a normal world is litter. But the world is not normal, not now.
One page is caught in the dip before the rocks; others are held in the frothing shallow water. A single tear would be appropriate – the thought surprises her and she almost smiles. Then the smile fades from her eyes and she feels the chill on her neck.
She drops the last page and watches it skitter. The last one. Gone. She turns and walks away, into the wind.
Some years later, she returns with a dog and children. Of course there is no sign of his letters. No sign. Of course.
Written in the stars
Nothing, but nothing, is written in the stars. Except the words I felt when you held my hand and the stars fell towards the sea.
simonsalento 