Mirror halves of lobster shells on two plates,
and words as hand to hand, the wine and spark
fall behind with whisky and a will to climb
we leapt with the waves about the shelf of rock
at the abrupt end of the beach’s seen move of land.
This way! In brilliant dark words enough to guide me
over the boulder-broken point, birds have buried
their heads under wings, there’s silence but for the
metrics of my pulse working with the furling surf.
This way! And we clamber the quiet wall.
Above, we talk above ourselves of the via lacta,
milk of star-spattered sky bright enough
to read our thoughts by: Orion to the north
with other friends, the Cross to the south is ours,
and below from the distance that binds this moment
with light and drinking of whisky the sober talk
is drunk with the breeze, the ocean, and the night.