silent treatment

last night went walking  
through the bush behind the house  
bare-foot    
for a sit-down on the beach  
to do the kind of thinking  
that needs a drink  
   
left the rest of the bottle    
on the kitchen table  
‘cos bottles and me  
both get empty    
when we’re alone together  
too long  
   
I’m getting to the end of the job here  
won’t be living ‘round this town much longer    
so I’m grabbing chances    
to make memories    
out of sunsets  
   
leaving a town    
does things    
to the mind    
worrying    
about whether I’ll find love    
or even its second-best friend;  
a woman kind enough    
and naked enough    
to fuck with    
so I was careful    
sitting there    
to be hope full  
while thinking    
harder    
on what leaving    
really means;    
change  
lost memory    
a whole bunch of first impressions    
and more people  
who’ll turn out    
pretty much the same flavour    
as everywhere else    
   
which is terrible  
and true  
and beautiful  
too  
   
then I let the moon come up unannounced    
no song    
or dance    
for her    
   
(even the moon    
that most reliable of women    
needs treating hard  
to keep her coming back)  
   
when the day was finally burned to darkness  
and the sea was settled in  
to drum the night away  
I walked back through the trees    
my feet cool on the sand    
   
carried my empty glass    
like it was full    
of something else;  
won’t call it truth  
or knowledge  
or hope  
but instead    
a kind of cupped silence  
which seemed like almost 'enough'  
and far less likely    
to prove me  
in one more town  
one more time  
   
the fool