Inland

I hear you swim in the river these days.
In picture-postcard valleys, no salt in the air.
You moved inland, back to old stones and fields.
I think the seagulls know that something’s gone on.
They dip sadly over our bricks and patches of grass,
Through the sunlight tangled in the cranes.
Bound to the place, torn and useless, but inescapable.
From this distance I can almost see you.
Your eyes clawing at my eyes. From that distance.
How you must have practised all this time,
To send a low sun fast into the morning,
Dripping grey mid-morning light.
How you must have practised all this time,
To tell me that I did not learn to love you.