We cycled to Glendhu Bay and further, watching the
clouds jealously shadowing the mountains as they
threaded across the biro blue sky.
We rang home, spoke of golden willows lamp lighting
the night path along the shore, skeleton mountaintops
piercing the sky allowing studded stars to shine through.
They replied with yeh, not much, not a lot, interspersed
with weather reports, grunts, and a request for
coloured washing instructions.
We said we’d spent early mornings musing by the lake,
watching the mountains knitting together, getting a rise
out of the wind.
They wondered if the skate park had been extended,
was Llew’s Hand still there and had we been
We were surprised. They hadn’t loaned us so many
words for months. These nightly calls were almost
We arrived home to empty tins, closed doors, limited
language. Before unpacking I googled wotif searching
for another holiday to break the silence.