The tide is going out on the Burrow Beach,

the long murmur, the suck and hiss.

Night, and the islands under the full moon

float at their moorings, nudge and shove.

One of those nights when talk’s beyond our reach,

each of us wearing a single glove

the better to hold hands; you scuff your shoes,

the dog carefully watching our every move.

And this is all we need to know of love:

three souls walking the beach,

the tide going out that will come in again,

the dog content, the fated stars above.

Still silent, buoyant, we stop, we turn to kiss

and the black dog goes chasing down the moon.

The Shelf

I level the brackets, cast iron birds

you bought in New York, then

balance the board on upturned palms,

set the shelf in place.

It sits in the alcove, floats

head-height in the white kitchen –

clean timber, straight in the grain,

clear sawn, smooth planed.

I make myself tea,

pull out a chair and sit there

at the exact centre of the world,

feeling the weight of time in space,

the smooth sweet curve it takes

towards the exact moment

you walk in the door,

any second now.

Theo Dorgan