In the wet sand you drew a love heart, and inside,

I wrote our names, although they didn’t quite fit. 

When the tide turned, it washed everything away;

as if I had never been there; no trace, not even a footstep,

just beer cans washed up on the beach.


We lit a fire on the beach. Flames gyrated hypnotically, seductively.

The burning heat was on the knife edge between pleasure and pain.

I knew I shouldn’t get too close, but I couldn’t move away. 

Sparks flew.  In the morning, when the fire died, it left only cold, passionless ash.



Time was up, so I packed the tent and you sat on the rocks smoking.

“Any chance of a hand,” I said. The wind blew the tent like a balloon.

“Any beer left,” you asked.

“Bit early for that?” I said. But it wasn’t too early; it was too late.



When the train pulled into Gilmour Street Station, we both gathered our things and disembarked. 

We kissed goodbye; both of us knew this was the end of it.

You called a taxi.  I walked home in the rain, turning my face to the clouds,

letting the downpour clean everything away.

The End

First published in Paisley Poems No 2

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