You are afraid of the water. The moon has a tighter grip. Under the boards, at Bognor Regis, tides rise. Bodies of children are washed up onto the beach. Rain hissed past as I struck out beyond the headland.
The sea was yellow with clay washed off developments inland. You, back at the bach, holed up, wondering what possessed you to follow me to this end of the earth where you had no friends, no life of your own.