Dawn Call Late

Alnmouth,
Northumberland,
Spring, 2013.

On a bench with
Gladys Bettess.
Overlooking the bay.

Above us,
a kite,
        swirls,
panics,
         falls.

The disappointed
pilot winds up
on a wind.

He sighs, releases again.

It soars to settlement
as if on surveillance.

The sand bites,
dear Gladys and I.
We squint and sting
in the sunshine.

Behind us,
an afternoon Lark,
larks!

Then Gladys
takes my hand.

Tightly.

She tells me of her loves.

Rowing boats,
crabs, sandcastles,
dances on the beach,
her own kite flights,

French kisses,
French letters.

She loved Alnmouth
Gladys Bettess
1920-1995.

I bend into the gale.
My hand outstretched.

For you.