A broad reach in a sail-white sun
we crossed four furlongs of the Stour
to find another shore.
Warmed with wine, with bones of wood
with pebbles smooth as cream
we came back creased with salt and smiles,
and ran our fingers deep in green.
Still beating, hauling, tacking home
from there to here to now
I steer you softly to our room
and fold you in my arms.
I breathe a tiny wordless breeze
so you can cross alone.