For Darla
We feel we have caught this day
like this seagull
with a whelk in his mouth.
Hills smoke by the sea,
and they burn the heather
to shoot the grouse
And the smoke burns
with a certain haze. The mist
and the memories of separate
camping trips
flood onto the horizon.
We are drenched.
We are not sure
if the boat will return
to take us back to reality.
I wonder if when I think back
to the sound of rain on hoods
I will only picture
my childhood
Or you in your yellow
fisherman coat,
dancing with no music.