Somewhere there’s a photo of you,

on my phone, backed up, whatever.

I haven’t seen it in a while but

in my head it’s monochrome.

You’re standing, back turned to the lens,

on the jetty on Roa Island.

Behind you is the midgetty ferry –

practically a powered coracle –

approaching to bob us two to Piel.

Unlike Roa, for which an umbilical

causeway mitigates the finity,

Piel Island really is one: properly

cut off from the main, two dozen

acres of grass and sheep and castle

with its own pub-landlord “king”.

My recollections of that day, though,

are less of isle and more of ferry

crossing and of you upon it, joyful.

For you embraced that open-futured

trip of spray, pitch, roll and yaw

with such adventure, whooping. Whoop again,

yeah, whoop and holler. And when waves break

into the boat and soak us to our skins,

whoop on. There’s dry clothes in the car.