Author: The final sentence.

You owe him forty-one pounds six shillings.

A keepsake from the war.

Now you rise,
a city from the sea,
born long before Alexandria was,
straightway from God you have come
into your redeeming skin.

Very simply, he wanted to see her.

Ah, who is there?

‘Look who it is.’

‘I’ve killed enough men to last me a lifetime.’

What else?

She could almost have sworn that the stranger was smiling through his tears.

Those two remembering
nothing naked and brutal
from that little death,
that little birth,
from their going down
and their lifting up.