End of The Pier
Too scared to go on,
her stopping point was always
where the shingle became water,
while he strolled on –
out to the end of the pier.
Year on year she’d watch him recede,
passing the rides and amusement arcades,
his stooping gait, hands behind back –
until he was suspended at the furthest point.
And that is how it was.
He at one end
she at the other.