A Sort Of Homecoming

Stolen of its power by the headland of the bay the wave gathers and collapses,
Running unimpeded up the shelving beach.
Fishing boats huddle at either end of the crescent,
Leaving the central span alone and empty like a lover’s arms.
Two score tides of the green North Sea since they were gone.
She has seen every one and now she stands on the hill
Beacon dutifully by her side, waiting still.
South-westerly breeze tugs her blonde hair,
Catches the smoke from the village below,
Carries away the sounds of laughter and life.
She stares in silence; knowing this wind will fly them home.
With tattered sails, clashing oars, victorious swords.
Him. Hers for just a moment, it seems, until the sea takes once more
And the blue eyed tears are left to mix with the spray.