We had a cocaine driveway leading to our house, limestone dust and crack rocks and I’ll never lose the sound of your bike’s motor or the tyres along it.

You were never there for the pink, when the blue faded into all kinds of fairy floss and the sea would take on its sheen. You weren’t there when I discovered the track down to the beach that had been worn in by barefooted ladies with sticks carried on their heads and faces beaten by epiduralless labours and a lifetime of foraging in the name of living, the track that lead right down to the seaweed farms.

Walking on the sand towards the horizon each afternoon, our adopted street dog with me, the setting sun at eye level a glowing golden wrecking ball, a sun that only shines like that for postcard photographers in the Sahara dessert, you missed that too.  I wonder whether it was all trepidation as you drove down that path back to me in the dark each night for the lump of coal at the end of the rainbow.