It’s early Sunday, down here on the sand
There’s no horizon, only shades of blue
Dotted with islands, and the inland view
Two castles, one cathedral, and the strand.
The sea-washed sand-grains glitter like panned gold
And sailing out, a single white-sailed yacht
And its reflection — and how have I got
So lucky, to have this to see and hold.
How did my life lead here, so I could be
Here in this town, this life, this world, these friends,
This early morning walk beside the sea?
So lucky, lucky that my life now lends
This joy of being here, and being free
To see and love so much, before all ends.
I met a woman walking in the waves
“Bonjour,” “Bonjour,” “Vous etes Anglais?”
“Oui, suis,” and then a tale burst out a weird way
I couldn’t understand, that featured graves.
She asked was I a writer, I “I am,”
And then she told me that her son had died.
To illness. He was ten. And then she cried.
And I said “Ah! Je n’ai pas mots, Madame.”
No words in French or English actually
In face of such a grief, nothing that may
Reach out across the gulf from her to me.
“J’ai perdu ma soeur, a onze. Je sais.
Nous oublies jamais.” I said. The sea
Kept making waves. And she said “Oui. Jamais.”