Eating, out

I think of us and food. I think of food and us.

I think of the high sky our umbrella at Youghal, when we were only thinking of marriage, nothing declared; and the fine picnic we made there one day, sunlit and buffeted by the wind.

Turrets, or some such structure, we climbed up to above the flattening sea. And there on a bench we took out our fare and ate. Giggled with each squelchy crunch of tomatoes gritty with salt. Savoured the satisfying stripe of our sandwich: cheese, cucumber, cheese. We chatted like the seagulls who came to pillage our crumbs. Sipped hot coffee, bitter, black, made strangely better by plastic.

If I were to ask you, casual, now - which was it, our best fare together? Which day, lit by which candle, which meal? You would say that day, my love, that picnic day, sunlit, when we feasted by the sea.