The rain is falling
It has fallen through the night
Apparently
We cannot do anything about it
Except of course
To sit in the drawing room and write
Or read about the Italian
Who built this house
Before it became a hotel
The single chandelier
Casts its light
Down the pale green walls
A reminder of the olive groves of Sicily
And the romance which brought him here
To the Isles of Scilly
Looking
Out to sea
From your
Private place
Between two houses
Behind a street lamp
And beneath
A satellite dish
Do they work anymore
Do wedding guests
Still dance
To Dancing Queen
On a Saturday afternoon
At the beginning
Of the second week
Of September…
You are
Lovely
If
Just a little bit
Disorganised
Even we could say
Anxious
When working
Against the clock
But hey ho
We have found a bar
And you have
Volunteered
To get the drinks
Although the tab
Is likely
To be in joint names
Up
And down
Cutting
Quite a dash
On
And on
Pitching
And ploughing
Here
Then, sitting
Right now
Almost on the beach
For our Myrtle
1944-2021
Silently we sat by the sea swell
Knowing the pleasure
Of the howling wind
On the main deck
By Muster Station ‘D’
Level with the swell
As we cut through the water
Travelling at quite a rate of knots
Past drilling rigs
And marker pylons
The TV is an old TV
And the passengers
Are mostly old
Because this is what we do
Cross places off
Of our bucket list
As if time alone
Is not time enough
Next year
A firm base
Solid with its solitude
Free from solitary loneliness
