(with a little bit of a nod to Anne Sexton)
I have always been there, my friend.
A monument of black rock draped in weed,
armed with sharp gnarly edges:
scratchy and easy to graze.

I’ve always been there, my friend.
I’ve had many visitors come for a moment:
The one that wanted to grieve on me;
The doctor whose fingers traced a trail in the cracks;
Pebbles from Poland that cemented the fractures.
(I really did think that the pebbles would stay –
until the day they were dashed and crumbled away.)

I’ve always been there, my friend.
Long before the tide dropped you sudden alongside.
You’ve stuck around longer than most.

But now I find that you’re edging away
as I stay fixed and unmoving.
Sometimes you edge a bit backwards
but that’s only when the moon is still high.

I know that the time is fast coming
(I’ve always known it would happen)
but in low tides I find myself thinking:
Was I just a convenient shady location?
An anchor in strange, stormy waters?
Too dull really to be of benefit
when there is so much more that delights you much better.

I’ll always be here, my friend
But I guess I will have to let you go.
And I’ll watch as you drift far, far away.

But I’ll be here.
Always here.
A black rock covered in weed and the brine.