Broad sand flats, crows and gulls on the verge,

white lines in the sky; on the other side,

past Flat Holm island, Cardiff; no border,

just a sign in both English and Welsh,

on our way to Swansea. Wet, mist and streams, 
thick reeds, old stations by the railway.

Years have passed; the longest tide,

the promenade where we took Bailey for a walk,

how you had to vacuum our flat,

my eyes weeping every day. It was too much, 
the lovely windows on either side, the tall grass

in the yard, the wind and seeds on the sill;

I remember it, the steep cemetery, the last light.

How you did all you could to stop my tears,

the table we sat at, the lounge I could not lie on.