In that Past

That day was flung ripe across the sky,
and the sea, with jabber and recoil,
was mad about the headlands.
The wind was gristle and snout
in water blatant on bruised rock.
And in cut of air the sea bugled
high; honed on bird-howl beaches,
angry in the fine breasts of sand.

In craft as brittle as shells, men
rode the apex of the rage and
felt the sudden blow of fear;
felt love break in their bodies.
They knew their deaths; and straight
their voices rang, exultant beyond the wind.

Across the long weeping beach our
joy rang high, filling your voice
in its sharp, single shout.
Quickly we lunged, and your
hair was shrill in my hands,
your eyes strident at my mouth.

This day, as I walk the beach,
the sand is dim with grudge beneath my feet.
The sky hangs like a faded skin,
and no bird is hoarse above my head.
My hands create grief,
and no wind is tongue in sea and face.
Watch the mist, like a slow disease,
nudge in over the tense, furled water.
Hear the soft, sad suck of the tide.

Norman Bilbrough