The sun going down on a leaving ship
a mile or more to sea,
from where I glimpse some unknown folk
going home on bikes for tea.
A twilight born an hour ago,
a siren blast that screams “hello”
or “goodbye” to men in dark blue shirts
and women too in full-length skirts.
That was France; I love to hate
their food, their wine, their shrugging gait,
their pursing lips, the way they mock
our food, my French, the way I talk.
Splints of light break through the gloom
as people flit from room to room.
A hand finds mine; her secret palm,
tells me we share the massive, calm
breathing and heaving of the sea
that distance her and me
from new-made friends, from wine and laughter
that wait for us next time and after.