Christmas, 2001

The beach was empty beach and I alone
wandered on. The world had changed.
We were never close but now forever apart.
Haunted by my shadow I walked on.
The smooth tide approached,
licked the frost-crowned sand,
then retreated without breaking.
It’s harsh whisper reminded me
of your old gas fire, how it would hiccup
with the spark before settling down to a burbling hiss.
It kept you company,
I imagine. I know I didn’t call often
but that suited us both.

A gull’s cry cracked the sky, as it wheeled
and set a course for the old harbour.
Beyond the battered sea wall grey-green
trawlers ploughed their way through
the rollers. ‘A hard life for hard men’
you said, once, as we walked
between the ice-packed crates that lined
the market floor. Looking back
I wonder, were you the sea I fought?
Or an oil-skinned fisherman baiting me
with knotted lines?
Walking the pale shore I, alone, feel less
than half of us.

Turning, to wander back, following
footprints home, the pale sun threw
my shadow before me. And with each stride
it grew, defining me, as you used to.
Life was hard, as you were,
but as the trawlerman is baptised
in brine so I was cast in your fire:
forged, hammered straight, sharpened until true.
For this I am grateful.
And when ever my strength is tested,
I will think of you.