A quarter past two and you wondered if


your body were a breeze or a breath of moonlight,


if your children drew on the tide in the harbour,


or the dew-covered garden in their dream work.


They lay like feathers in a single bed. And you, at once


the lady in the window and the woman moving


down the cobblestone lane to a pier beyond


the bulwarks and pilings, blending, step upon step,


your own colour and form into that nightscape.