To Die For

To die for,the waitress said
when I asked about
the bread and butter pudding.

We sat beside a window
in an Art Deco restaurant
looked out across the promenade,
waves getting ever closer,

walked back to an apartment
we had rented in a house
once occupied by Bram Stoker,
Sandsend visible from one window,
the Abbey from another.

When I visit now
the restaurant is gone,
its survival never more likely
than that of our relationship.

I sit upon the sand,
out of reach of breaking waves.
To die for, the waitress says.

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