Tonight the sun just bluntly refuses to set,
yet I can squeeze no more minutes from the moment,
no more dry wood from the crashed crates scattered
between the docile rocks. It’s wet again.
I’m missing nothing, no-one.
I was sure that I saw whales in the bay,
slowly taking in the cliffs that look like
a church in resolute light.
I could be mistaken. They say that
tankers often come this way.
The deeper, wider ocean isn’t so far,
and I will still be here tomorrow.
First published in Poetry Nottingham 1997