Dead these five years, she meets me on the beach at Easthaven

Laughter in her voice and I say she is restored to me, saving

My joie de vivre. “Not restored,” she protests, “Remember what

I was like, so very poisoned and diseased, day after day grotty

With addiction, you wouldn’t want that back.” “Yes, I would!” I tell

Her, “but you were making a point.” “The point is I am not restored,

I’m refreshed.” “Last week the sea was flat and dull, as if it mourned

For someone, but today the sun is a blade cutting away all shoddiness

So that the wind whips up the water into white breakers, fresh

As the clouds, in the shallows.” “Nice illustration,” she acknowledges

“But if you let a wave drain through your hand you’ll find you’ve dredged

Out little residues of shit and plastic showing it’s not as fresh as it looks;

With me, the old has gone, the new is here, I’m refreshed, not just shook

Up and restored. And you should know, it’s a Bible word, your New

Testament studies give you Saint Paul writing to Philemon to

Free a runaway slave, “Refresh my heart in Messiah” he pleads,

Intending that the owner’s heart will be refreshed as he reads.”

“You are a better scholar than I thought” I told her, but then

I wondered if it was just a kind of implant available in heaven.

“I read St Paul on earth,” she said, “And nothing is simply given

Here, you must want it with a true and wholesome craving,

So that being without it would be, even here, a real distress,

As I craved, and every drop of your sea craves, to be fresh.”