Sitges, in the sixties: that old, luxurious hotel
where I wrote the book, Winter Sea.

Thirty years later, when it was only a short
time before her death, we went there together:
the paint was already peeling, with the railings
damaged by the sea, and the moquette
worn thin in places by passing feet.

But the glasswork was well-cared for
in those still sumptuous rooms,
separating sitting-room from bedroom,
and made from huge double panes of frosted glass,
with ears of wheat and flowers pressed between them.
That’s the way those few days we spent
together there have remained in my memory.
Perhaps you’ll go back with her to the Terramar,
says the horizon’s blue looking-glass.
We, the old, don’t look for truth.
Every certainty is nothing more
than a useless wound.