Exactly between the eastward-rising moon
And the sorrowful sun, trace the limestone
Bones with your feet.
Let the red clover, thrift and grasses
Of the the summer cliffs whisper
On your passing ankles. July
Warms your back as it always did.
Waves slide on as they did on your long ago beaches.
Time passes, yet doesn’t.
The yellow vetch and golden lichen,
Colours of a child’s swimsuit in 1967
Are still bright, though your eyesight fades.
There’s peace in entropy.