Holiday, April 2001

They walked along the beach, just the two of them;
White sand squeaking underfoot,
The turquoise water as flat as cellophane.
But in her ears, waves were pounding,
And her eyes were dull as lead.

In the night, in blue, shiny shadows,
She lay there, haunted by the ghosts of hopes,
Imagining a tiny, warm body not there,
Feeling the cold emptiness in her arms;
Looking at him across the black gulf of grief
Washing up between them