But we were there at noon.
From caves sought more for cool than privacy,
we gazed across turquoise glass,
poked at our indifferent lunch
of hard-boiled eggs
and bottled water
imagining moonlight and wine.
We tread the rocky barrier
to the sea wishing we’d brought
found the water less than warm,
bobbing weightless above its stony bed
as tiny fishes nipped
at our toes.
Up the face of the cliff
that curved above the cave,
their ropes strung taut,
kicked off the surface, dropping
down, then pulling up
again in a motion like the surf.
We never saw the stars rise above
the place somebody named Moon Cove.
As we stumbled back toward the pier
our philosopher guide offered simply,
Some years, the sea, she brings us sand,
mounds it up in snowy dunes; some years
she takes the sand away and brings us rocks.