The café on the shore

Off-season, I can stay all afternoon,
she says,
and brings another pot of tea.
My table: at the window to the sea.
The milk jug never matches,
and the spoon
is meant for eggs. She doesn't know.
She'll soon
be closing I suppose:
the sky, the sea
already grey.

The window mirrors me,
A ghost that haunts the beach. -- One afternoon,
Off season, long before the shore café:
We raced the waves and chased the gulls, and drew
in sand:

an arrowed heart,

At least, until high tide today,
she laughed.

But I, an unconvinced Canute,
Return, off-season, still to guard our shore.