by Lorraine Jeffery
Alone, I stand in the white breaker foam,
waiting for comfort that does not come.
But the surf is my history, not yours, Edith.
You loved the noise of the street festivals,
and laughed with your head thrown back,
dark hair flying, eyes flashing.
Here your laugh would be drowned by
the crashing on black lava rocks.
Down the wind-swept beach,
a crow is worrying a clump of seaweed.
You said you would come with me,
to hear the cry of the gull.
You said you could give up the moan,
of the saxophone on hot steamy nights.
But you looked back,
and from the ocean spray,
I taste the salt on my lips.
