Two footpaths led to the beach.
Right past the dovecote your path met the other,
which lay beside a low stone wall.
In no time you were there where the two paths merged,
your head, straw-hatted, dropping already from view.
What now? No sooner had you followed the path
on down to the bay than here you were returning.
Only a quick swim, late as it was—and you meant it!
With cypresses shielding the shoreline from view,
I greedily pictured you getting out of the water,
Venus adjusting herself. But no …
For there you were, bareheaded—your sunhat where?
(bare its usual bedpost too)—bright-shirted,
stepping out from behind the dovecote,
that now whitewashed, blue-shuttered bungalow,
where, nodding, you greeted your straw-hatted other
before your sun-flecked tangles dropped from view
and the woman in black, to whom appeared to cling
the shade of funereal cypresses,
skirting the low stone wall drew near.