On the West Side of the Isle of the Dead

I admire the sun as it sinks into the sea,

its blinding orange fire quenched and extinguished.

The light fades,

and all that remains is the sound of the surf,

throwing itself against the rocks,

and the screaming gulls

and a wind that chills you to the bone.

The sun will return in the morning,

painting the sky rose-gold and violet,

and the sand will be white and warm

and the sea will be calm and endless and blue.

Our footprints on the sand will be erased,

and no one will remember us here,

but no one will blame us either.