Throughout history intertwines itself with the present
like ivy around the throat of Florence,
whilst fear spreads throughout her bones
at the threat of what is to come, looming
heavy like moons over the wedding.
Her breaths are short;
like the novel itself,
dialogue measured in grams and carefully
dosed, and so the pages are tightly packed, with McEwan
rationing each sentence and each image.
The honeymoon becomes more like cracks in the pavement,
the smiles edging into frowning crescents
as words cascade from manuals and memories
past Edward’s sombre face and into Florence’s gaping eyes.
At the denouement the audience is left on a cliff,
groping for a firm rock, but there are only pebbles
from Chesil Beach, and this is not quite enough
to explain what happened to Ponting
in all the years that past. So we let go
and fall into the mystery