Wood. Salt. Tin.

Little soul,

do you remember?

You once walked

over wooden boards

to a house

that sat on stilts in the sea.

It was early.

The sun painted

brightness onto the water,

and wherever you sat

that path

led directly to you.

Some mornings

the sea-road was muted

scratched tin,

some mornings blinding.

Then it would leave.

Little soul,

it is strange — 

even now it is early.