We entered, and the door was
open with hands and smiles -
a glass was put into my hand
and outside the clouds gathered
glowering at their own bulk.   The
sun shined on us, and the sea
restless in its girth, smashed
rocks black as anger and
intransigence.   Overhead the gulls
cawed, and hung, catching the warm
updraught from the land, a
path beaten by feet down the
hill to the sand.   The car was
pressganged for our service
and it rolled the miles
under our feet.   In the evening,
the cool air ruffled our skin
as we read the words, the thoughts,
of the dead.   The village street
climbed the hill beneath
the smooth tarmac, and voices
in the kitchen spoke of food
and contact.    Too tired to go,
too lazy maybe, the answer
was no and we stayed,
disappointed, the time ticking
our wrists as, somewhere,
the sun went down.   We
left.   The door closed, another
year come and gone on old
faces, old smiles, and the
growing flesh on their arms
and legs told of stasis and
comfort, companionship a
scenic route to the even-tempered
stars; the long road home a
heavy one of stone and weight,
the city's arms stretched out on
either side in welcome, in pain,
the dusty roads of its endless
and intricate bays no road
to its heart, no road through
to the sea, where life beats
and rolls, and the little churches sit
quietly praying for fishermen.
His arm around me and the
calling of the gulls, the heavy swell
cascading on the headland
was everything, as we watched
the first star shine out of
horizontal lilac and rose, the 
fragrant heather blooming on 
the rise.   His eyes gazing 
the horizon down, Odysseus' ships 
long gone, but for us the 
journey home continues in 
quiet concentric rings as we 
draw-in to our hearts beating 
and the love between us 
measured in warm skin.
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