Josh Thompson
Moher in the mist
You took me out here, oh so long ago. So far west that all there is between you and Newfoundland is an immenseness of ocean.
Just the day before you told me you wouldn’t leave me, but you didn’t say ever not even not for now.
We walked a few yards through the swirling mists on the cliff-top path, nothing more than a fresh sea breeze between you and the ocean. You lay down on your belly and slithered to the edge to see how far it dropped. I fought an urge to push, to shove.
You got to your feet, brushing sticky mud from your knees. “I don’t think I love you any more,” you said.
You stood staring at me, your eyes full of shock as if I’d spoken, as if it was me giving the lie to the love that we’d shared.
My hand went out and you stepped back but I’d already fought that urge to push, to send you away to Newfoundland.
I touched your face, wet from the mist, muddy from the cliff.
I walked away and never looked back.
I hear Moher still cries when it remembers that day but I won’t dwell on a love that lied.
Blog photograph copyrighted to the photographer and used with permission by utata.org. All photographs used on utata.org are stored on flickr.com and are obtained via the flickr API. Text is copyrighted to the author, Debra Broughton and is used with permission by utata.org. Please see Show and Share Your Work
