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.