In the crater of an August moon
High tides and holidays
My wine glass catches a burnt sky
then pours lilac over pan fried sea bass,
couples drink and chat laughter
as the lonely ocean plays with silver.
A sturgeon moon scoops waves
high over the last strip of sand
fading colours into reflections
of bleached sun-bathed days.
The heady pull of memory’s crush
holds scented hands bound by bracelets,
wrapped in the drift of distant music.
I smile looking down beyond your chair,
until the dry drips of an empty bottle
make me look up.