Shingle and a red cliff.
A falling away to surf
the dim surge of a perpetual clock.
“My father loved this beach " I say.
You look over your shoulder
as if to find him.
I’d watch him fill his lungs with it
unfurling his back and shoulders
with the long muscle of familiarity.
He’d follow the current of people
cupping his ears to the stirring
of dogs cricket bats the rattle of
change in the tuppenny waterfalls.
This was his beach disguise
the blown out salt edges
of his childhood glimmering
on golden afternoons.
Eyes shut to the breeze
he would circle with bragging gulls
over high cliffs rock pools
the salt and vinegar sea front.
You think of him too
guiding you across slippery rocks
plodging in the shallows.
The same sea’s rhythm is in you.
This beach is our convergence
where we face the same sun
see the same bright dresses
flap tight to thighs
like a tatter of flags.
Here time drags our lives
to a single point
along the furrows we plough
fetching water for our moats.
Our backdrop a scatter of children
red limbed in a wash
of ozone and seaweed iodine.