A second draft, shared with The Mag.
There’s a bucket of lights on the cliff top
squatting at the track’s end and there is
the great swarm of the summer dark.
Its night-roots are tugged by the sea;
its black branches clog the pathway.
We two climb blind, both naked still
under towelling robes, rime in hair and
on lashes, late love tattooed in wheals
of sand, communion salt on our tongues.
I smile into the darkness. Ahead of me,
a thick shadow, I sense you smiling too.
We’re drawn by obligation and now,
by shame a little: company is waiting on us –
over the breathing of the waves, voices rise
and scatter like sparks, music pumps. Soon
(another stumble upwards, one more turn
through gorse, its candles dimmed) we’ll be of
the world again, restored, reconstituted. And
from thereon, bleached by light, we’ll turn into
a pair of ghosts, doomed, blessed to haunt
each other through the falling of the years.