The sun will flee again soon, following its divine angle,
to fall beyond the hill, before the cool flow of night arrives.
The last car will leave the village and argue its way back up the road,
its driver tapping out a rhythm of fidgets on the steering wheel,
and all that will linger is the clong, clong, of the bell around the neck
of a goat, beckoning to its partner in the darkness,
and the slow, slow clap of the waves, studded with pebbles,
one by one, eating into the rounded belly of the bay.
first published in Clear Poetry, 2015