"She lives the poetry she cannot write" – Wilde
A postcard from Trearddur Bay
We have arrived, in separate little cars
and brought in bags of cigarettes and hot cross buns.
The one who talks too much has talked too much,
the one who leans in doorways with a coffee cup,
the one who nips outside to smoke, the one who
cares – we do our daily thing. We pick up pebbles.
All our little pairs and cliques have set and shifted
as they always do, and we are cooking stews
and making tea for one another, listening in bed
to waves, to teaspoons stirring downstairs
and to laughter. In between the sounds
we hear the tide clock ticking in the dining room
and know that everything in there is lit up
by chrysanthemums. We’re not the praying sort.
We’re here, together. I don’t know if we’ve arrived
but you were here already when we came.