A few feet away, the child is waiting.

Strands of rain, wind’s pummelling,
salt sun (even a woman, bent
like a pause in conversation)
have left that day intact.

Today the day after that day
means tomorrow. I know at once
this is tomorrow. Grass that is almost
too green to be not quite pink,
a leaf glazed on the mudbank.

Lumpy stones trudge across the stream,
holding my foot as my body
slides like foam, water reaching
for my toes. Another moment -
I am climbing the arch of a tree.

No. Not that.
But I take off my watch,
prod a stick
in the direction of the sea.
Tell no one where I am.

First published in _Ourselves in Rivers and Oceans, The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press (2024).