PAPERBACKS

Harry Richardson

Of that trip I see only scenes:
I sang as I combed her hair, whilst she cried
at the beauty of the moment. We swam in the sea
whilst the shoals feigned interest.
Our paperbacks lay abandoned on the sand, 
one strewn on top of the other, sun-dried.
We took a rickety bus to town
where houses leaned upon houses, blushed
in tints only lovers know.
We found shelter beneath a tree. Her cheeks flushed
from the heat. I cracked the spine. She fell asleep
while I read. We climbed the fortress, looked
down on it all. My eyes traced our steps,
followed figures like dolls through the street.
I peered over the edge, wondered at the fall
to the sea below.
She had the pictures printed,
dog-eared and stained, tucked
between yellowed pages, sealed,
because some things, when resurfaced,
let you know
exactly what you’re missing.