Those final images I see: a jog
along the coast where once I ran, through groves,
then on the dike or past some little coves,
on sand, on shingle and where seaweeds clog,
a field of wheat, some poppies on the right,
hardly a farm but fences painted white
round empty paddocks, then a yelping cur,
red barn, the quiet sea, no breeze astir
to cool me on my way down to the reeds,
before I finally stumble with a whack –
a last quick glance: a net, a wooden rack,
the rotten jetty (to a boat it leads),
a brightly coloured butterfly – a spark!
It folds its wings, and suddenly the dark.