Collect all the Empties

Collect all the Empties

Collect all the empties,
we’re all done here.
The brush of your lips
the last souvenir.

Last orders called,
we’re into the night.
A momentary touch.
The impulse for flight.

We have the memories.
We guard them with the words –
the pilots of centuries
of secrets they’ve heard.

The cliff tops are heavy
with thistles and gorse,
the call of the ocean,
love and remorse,

the pull of the tide,
the spray and foam.
The motorway’s closed,
but we’re going home.

We have the memories.
We guard them with the words –
the pilots of centuries
of secrets they’ve heard.

Last out into the night
on my shoulder.