in Walderingfield

A boat is pulled from her water
white, flaked,    
blue, splintered -  
men seeking to store,  
prevent rot in the base of her.  
I watch, throw a rolled stone into glass-flat,  
stare down the curved eel Moon still combatting the Sun  
- a warmer dawn  
than the dawn before.  
A little Egret sails  
above boats, below  
irregular clouds.  
The linking sounds of lapping overtake all else as we wander  
further from people,    
stones collected, thrown,  
wet seeping into clean on socks.  
   
I think of you.  
   
I think of what may have been if we didn't rot each other's vessel -  
if we could have made each other well.  
   
The water swells, her own tempo    
taunting rhythms against ripples contesting,  
movement thrust upon her by my own quiet  
frustrations,  
distractions,    
omissions in our conversation,  
too much and too little to say,  
too much and too little feeling to stay  
   
and I thought of you.    
   
Suffolk hurts like it used to.