Orange line of the horizon in the impossible distance, reflected by the clouds.
There are no stars. There is no moon.
Lacking luminescence, the sea appears dull and flat: a carpet of water, gleefully frigid
To the feet
Beside you, I shiver in my flimsy striped sweater.
You are all confidence, striding along the water’s line,
Barefoot, your shoes dangling carelessly from one hand.
I am cold.
You rub my arms, and turn me in the direction of the pier,
Where the orange lights shine brightly.
You look towards the sea, towards great
Freighters anchored in the distance. (We see them as no more than black smudges, speckled at fore and aft with brilliant white lights)
I am enthralled with the view of the town behind us.
(Between us two, we exchange glances, and turn to look at one another’s views. We move closer, and then turn back to our own.)
each edifice is bathed in this orange glow.
There are only our voices mingled with the sea-sigh-silence.
When we walk back, I cannot help but notice
(but do not tell you) that
I am not cold anymore.