Caroline Price
  It was the last spring
though we didn't know it then
of four springs, blazing, in an almost empty
white hotel on a half-built stretch of coast:
wild flowers, a dozen tethered goats,
fragments of capitals, columns
strewn amongst ordinary rocks
and a shallow sinking of land
where the water sat, still, after last night's rain -

it was a hot day, after last night's storm
when we'd stumbled back
late, no lights again
drunk with sweet on-the-house liqueur
after another power cut, tripping
on stones, fraying ropes,
a path that was hardly a path

and they'd all started singing, one by one
joining in, a fugue
bubbling up round our feet, swelling
over the wasteland, chasing us in
to that sleepless thunderous night

before the last day
– it was the last day, clear and still
as the place where it took place, the picnic, us
on the rocks, spinach pastries, a frieze
of pale gnarled oranges

and you with your back to me
crouching over a basin of fluted stone
chapped at the lip, your hand thrust in
to rescue the tiniest creature, the nail-sized
froglet, translucent limbs splayed
bobbing on and under the water
from last night's rain -
it was the surface tension,
the care you were taking, the care
you were taking

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