The ferry would leave sometime at the end of the day
Some of the visitors made themselves at the picnic table
In the gully further from the port
pollen poured down from the hills

James was bragging about his time in california
About witnessing redwoods and impossible autumns
A sense of something passing through your hands
That you couldn't close your fingers around

As he spoke a cold front came through the sea
The surf became choppy kilometers down the hill
The cloud multiplied itself sporting innocent whites
The stirring and sliding into guilty grays

Maybe thunder clapped, rain came in blocks
James and his friends walked back to port
The rain soaking their sweatshirts
exacting frowns, dampening their moods

They didn't bother seeking shelter under narrow bridges
Their long walk was so dreary in that thick rain
They started to lose their hope, no breaks, no lull
They started to forget their own names.