We sat at the broken table
in the wooden hut
at the end of the jetty
and drank beer,
telling tales of travels
until the barman shut
and locked the doors
and drew his own chair near.
Outside the sky turned black
the sea a darker green;
inside the tales grew rambling
and empty bottles mounted.
We waved our arms, drew pictures
with our hands to set the scene
and one by one our stories
were remembered and recounted.
And eventually it grew light again
as we had filled the night
with all our separate tales
and filled each ale-fogged head
with recollections of our pasts
and of other pasts that might
not have been our own but
which held a common thread.
And with the light we rose
and went on our different ways
to different unknown futures
from our different lives.
The momentary conjugation
that had joined our common days
had broken with the dawn,
though a lifetime later, the memory survives.
