I think perhaps the story behind the poem is richer than the actual poem: Mr Couture and I were away on a trip to the seaside. It was winter and the beach looked so intense - it had so much going on, so many differing depths and colours of clouds; a cranky winter sea tossing and turning its way onto the shore, onto that rough stoney sand. It was relaxing yet invigorating to walk along and I was feeling all my creative senses tingling.
In the evening, Mr Couture and I were recalling our day over dinner and having a nice chat and I mentioned that I thought I might write a poem, to which he asked "on a napkin", but which I wrongly heard as "about a napkin?". I was puzzled and we spent the next little while giggling at our miscommunication and what could very well be the subject of my yearned-for poem.