For all of us that day
there was the long drive up the coast,
a late supper and a dressing of wounds,
and though each sat in silence,
not knowing the others,
there was a common thread
that passed between us,
from hand to hand,
like a shared cigarette.
This was a time of plenty
in the high country,
although we did not know it
and would not see it.
It was only after the passing out of cups
and the breaking of bread,
that the quiet sea crept up on us
and some wept openly.
Now there will be no going back,
no bus ride home on a winter’s eve
laden with rich offerings.
While in rock pools at the water’s edge,
tiny crabs scurry
against an energy of displacement
that seems to threaten all before it,
and then withdraws.