We'll pass through the water,
walk light-footed along
the tenuous line of spray,
dividing in seamless strokes
time before and time

We'll drop from laughing fingers
three desert star shells
on the dark seaweed bed,
a small mound of pebbles
to shimmer in silence,
and in the deepest crease
of the wave carved ground,
a handful
of this seed I gathered.

And a tree will grow there
whose leaves will speak of us.

We'll return to the shore
and meander, forgetful
down our willow sprig lives
till our sap has run dry.

Then, taking shelter
in our tideworn garden,
we'll pass through the winter.

Suzanne Aigrain, 2003