I told you the story of that day, remember,

the one with us on the sandstone promenade,

the bay’s breath hushed, just for us. And how

into the day came one remarkable dog,

alone, no collar, no tag, no visible owner.

He held a gnarled tennis ball,

tracking beside us, the request obvious.

And how we marvelled at this dog

running and leaping, corkscrewing backwards

mid-air, to snatch the ball in his God-crafted jaws

every time. Our smiles grew. And then he ran off,

disappeared over the rocks and back to a home

of which we would never know.

I told you our story, of these few minutes.

You could not remember. Knew of no dog,

denied the beach, dredged out the bay.

And because you could not remember,

never beside me, never with some dog,

then it did not happen; the story undone

in one simple act of forgetting.

The experience shared is the memory shared

and without memory, who do we become?

Perhaps you ran off too, somewhere,

over the rocks, away from pools and foam;

or perhaps the tide came in, unseen,

to wash you clear of my life,

leaving me astray, astounded,

observing, remembering a lie.