Answers On A Postcard

It was near the end of the world,
as I remember,
her sunset flecks written
over speedboat trails
before it was dragged across
the vacant, slurried beach.
She sent me here,
some journey back,
that pastel artist,
straggling up Porth Dinllaen's
rising slipway
under-arm sketches
in turquoise, mauve and black,
kindling mad and moody.
Unknown ships,
we jammed into chat,
on some delirious
boy's canvas.
No Inns, but a suggested out,
I should have caught.
The North-West jaunt, now
had soft beer for spirit,
and a Leica for eyes,
with the end closer than before,
as Aberdaron seawall, mosaiced
to a tomb stone collage
tilting the graveyard for
their nearing slide
splash-less
into the sea-deep.

Jerry Pike