by Margaret Atwood
Sunset, now that we’re finally in it
is not what we thought.
Did you expect this violet black
soft edge to outer space, fragile as blown ash
and shuddering like oil, or the reddish
orange that flows into
your lungs and through your fingers?
The waves smooth mouthpink light
over your eyes, fold after fold.
This is the sun you breathe in,
pale blue. Did you
expect it to be this warm?
One more goodbye,
sentimental as they all are.
The far west recedes from us
like a mauve postcard of itself
and dissolves into the sea.
Now there’s a moon,
an irony. We walk
north towards no home,
joined at the hand.
I’ll love you forever,
I can’t stop time.
This is you on my skin somewhere
in the form of sand
Photograph : Peel Castle. Isle of Man