When he died we flew kites
in the wind. We didn’t, but
that was the feeling. Instead,
we stood on the sand and waited.

We waited for tides to change.
Currents gathered, as did blame.
Tears and raindrops fell. Windswept
Bantham in September wept.

As the strong swells retreated,
corpses of bottles – maltreated.
Uprooted and forcefully
sculpted. Glass misshaped cruelly.

From evenings of love here;
fire, green glass bottles of beer.
Or anger and resentment,
drinking through abandonment.

Now smooth chips of feelings:
light green or white shining.
Like shells of life’s remedies
and dead men’s memories.

When he died we flew kites.