St Ives, ten years after.

The Chinese print stirs
blue against blue,
in a slow breath of morning.

As new light is broken
on the thin shutter bones,
the air is laced with last nights` perfume,
the taste of salt and rain
and the sweeping gulls
forage and criticize.

I have seen your photograph
on the dusty shelves of friends
cold and serene.
And perfect as this sun.

Now the dappled sand gives up
fragments of a broken grail,
and some tenuous silk threads,
improbably intact.

And I watch morning fill
the white sailed yachts,
as the sea showers absolution
on all the selves
I have ever been.