Squadrons of grey roll in over the horizon,
hindering the best part of the day.
You let your hand slip from mine
and leave me to grasp the drying sand.
An argument threatens to appear.
You are not whom I first met,
you very nearly but seldom say.
I'll let you blame me.

I sneak a glance at your flickering shadow
as it escapes my peripheral vision.
I sit there, a merman on the rock,
waiting for his maid to return,
but the light where the horizon used to be
fades into a deep dark star.
I try to catch the sound of your forgiveness
over the final calls of the days gulls
as they begin their descent to home.
I hear nothing but the crashing of waves.
I'll let you blame me.

It was only once but beautiful,
like the scene this night promised.
I held her like a mouse,
fragile and ignorant of the world,
not realising I was crushing the mouse in the other hand.
The grapevine whispered ferociously
and before I could dispel a single rumour,
you invited me here to say goodbye,
to enjoy our last day that delivered an anticlimax,
clouds and gulls and us,
two lonely weatherworms praying for rain.
I'll let you blame me.
I'll let you blame me.