The wide, whorled moon shell
n’est pas bleu
its chalk-white shell shattered
so only the round face gazes
at me from the rough-washed sand
here, four thousand days away
on this full moon, blue moon way.
Here, where, in our future perfect
we will have sat by the quay, again,
eaten mussels in that broth with wine
sun on our weary faces,
facing Le Vieux-Bassin
your smiling moon face
what I will have remembered most,
a rare find among the ebb and flow
of this dream whorled world.