Maybe it isn’t a need to leave
or a need to stay, it’s a need

for space–
we’re going up that?

was said, an ocean headland
scramble, the trail a crease

in the palm of upright sand,
and the ocean, all and always,

constant and eroding–
which in itself implies

time, these smooth
flat stones a bit

metaphysical, dark
when drenched, laced

white when dry, left
by the tide amongst

a thousand clacking
barnacles, the comfort

of a place of regular departure
and arrival, in two minutes

we had scaled the thing,
left everyone else

below on the beach,
and gasping stared out

at the grey stilled sea,
four foot waves now

crumpled paper,
and all this to say–

I slept so easily, there,
and now returned, I don’t.