Moving (Iii) Poem by Jacqui Thewless

A cold, concrete, block on the beach was where I sat
when we talked about old loves. His ex and mine.
My grown-up son was standing, walking, sometimes still.

The wind remembered the month, bitter February, giving nothing warm away and the sea
was as far off as summertime. I said: I blame myself,

then, steeped in stories; Once Upon A Myth,
despite the facts. He said: And yet...

I think it's best to hold for keeps the memories of kindness.