"Sestina for a Woman on the Docks"

In the fresh air, she shook out her handkerchief;
It rippled, mimicking the movements of the waves
That washed past the docks that Sunday morning.
She was pleased, despite the fact that the smile
She wore wasn't the usual one, beaming white
And toothy. Behind her, the bay's far shore

Was unimportant; she was concerned with the shore
She could see. As she tucked away the handkerchief,
She asked, "How long today?" "Until the white
Of the foam isn't," I answered, pointing to the waves.
"Why does it matter how long we stay? Smile!"
At my command, she did, and I took the morning's

Second picture--the first was her usual morning
Habit of shaking her hanky at the insolent shore.
"You're taking a lot of pictures," she told me, smiling
For the camera as I took out my own handkerchief
To wipe my brow. She posed, grinning and waving
The way other people breathed. The white

Clouds like gauze bandages matched her full white
Skirt. "What else'll I look at in the morning--
Some Kraut's face? I'd rather have the waves
And the dock from our last trip to the seashore."
"And me," she added, pulling out the handkerchief
Again to blow a kiss at the camera. She smiled--

I grinned--and it was the last day we smiled
Together. The photos of blue sky and full white
Skirts kept my spirits high, especially the handkerchief
One, but on the warm, breezy summer morning
I stepped off my ship, one leg short, she could not meet me ashore;
They told me of the Blitz's toll--but I listened to the waves

Instead. It was a quiet moving-on, with other waves
Of changes to accompany it--but I smiled,
Brave, and set away those pictures of the shore.
One early August dawn, though, when the white
Moon still blazed through the heat, I took that morning
Out of its box and examined it, the photos frail as handkerchiefs.

As I wondered what became of that handkerchief, a wave
Of snores came from the bed. I froze that morning, crushing the smiling
Photograph in my hands when the white bedsheets moved, like foam on the shore.

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