Missing you, I return to the jigsaw
That you had left half-finished.
Each night before bed I find a piece or two,
Slowly filling out the picture of los pescadores.
The billowing fisherwomen on the shore,
Their shawls buttered with sun,
Their headscarves like topgallants,
Bear down on the Valencian fisherman,
Who leans away like a coble in the path of galleons.
Outside someone bawls his way back from the pub.
The cat gets up and stretches by the door ’
She’ll have to wait: this jigsaw artist’s going strong.
Thud, click, thud, the last few pieces go in quickly,
Locking together to make the image whole.
Only one gap left now ’ this bit of sea.
I thump it home, yawn, get up and stretch
Survey the picture, think of you.
My own scene is still unfinished;
A vital piece is missing;
I put out the lights, dream of your return
And a love that’s fully interlocking.