St. Ives

I'll chase the summer
And thoughts of you
To the coast;
And wait out ten months,
My feet, and head,
Buried in the damp sand.
Until you return, I'll roll
With the white-capped waves,
Let the tide beat my body raw,
And follow the wheeling, diving,
Circling, path of seagulls,
Although I'll never catch
Their flighty, feathered forms.
With the taste of salty air
On my lips and tongue,
I'll walk and walk as I watch
The setting sun, a band of umber,
Dying across the grey-blue sky,
Begging to stay for a while,
Hanging on to the cliffs, the horizon,
As I hold on to your touch, your kiss,
And try not to forget why I miss you.
I'll sit, amongst the off-white, weathered cottages,
Slated roofs growing lichen, moss,
A perfect home for birds
To raise their young
In the warm summer sun,
And I'll remember, with a smile,
The days we wasted when I thought
We had so much time.
I should have taken hold of
Those days with both hands, knuckles white,
And lived every second more fully.
I'll walk the narrow, cobbled streets,
Stones smooth and tactile beneath my feet,
Just waiting for another chance
To put both our broken hearts back together.
But for now I will bide my time,
And write the story of you and me,
As I take solace in my quaint, bustling
Fishing village by the sea.