She feeds your dog ice-cream, hers, bought from the van on the sands, his paw crooked in her hand, like her and the dog are shaking on it, against this white picket fence, this warm breath coming in from the sea, lifting the white line of his fur as he takes the last of it saving her nothing, in the shade of this harbour pub yard, these white walls behind, in front only grey-green sea, and that lifeboat slope, a cobbled slipway down into the sand, the pincers of this cove holding the scroll of this ocean by the throat, and that red-brown sailboat, a wife of one day, and the thin radio of a child’s voice, tuning in and out like something half-remembered, or half-forgotten, and now you have done this thing, happiness, a bolt draws back, a heavy door opens, ten minutes late by the high-tide clock.