Epiphany

It clings to the cliffed shore,
to the wintered face of the thistle path,
to the fingers of the old man's glove
as he waves his memory homeward.

In that breath between come and go
she moves up from the bay;
gold turns her stride,
the line of her dress,
the soft sea pulling at her feet.

When he reaches out
and the frail birds fly
and the sun and the sky
have married deep into the sea, it clings.

Even as his shadow threads retreat,
it clings,
Even now as it dissolves to mist.