Under a corrugate roof
open to the wind, rising
brusque from waves below,
I wait in dying light
as you so often did
for carriages to move me on.
Out of that photo long gone
your greying beard, in straight-faced
converse with an elderly guard,
nods recognition.
Memory’s pull is strong,
here at the head of the line.
Thick with paint this iron spine
resists its rusting. Nightfall:
a cloud of wagtails
flitter like distressed moths,
seek roost among the stanchions,
from settlement draw common strength.
Along the pier’s full length
I’ll follow the lamp lit tide,
rippling, broadening to the margin.
In sea-black mirror
no view to bring back home
and dispute, with you, its proof.
(for Gerard Cassidy, 1926 - 2007)
v.2009
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