Beaches are very ancient places.
I realise this as Lauren is telling me
That the pattern of swash and backwash
On this particular stony cove means that
The course sand here will never become fine.
Sifting through stones, she makes a museum
Of shells and sea glass and promises
I can be the curator.
High-tide a long way off –
Waves creep up the shore and collapse,
Not knowing the fight belongs to the moon.
As I arrange my new collection,
Each fragile calcified piece balanced
Along this charcoaled tree trunk,
Loz wanders off to survey the rocks
- jagged and veined with sun-crisp seaweed –
Like some timeless nature thing,
Socks in the sand.
New Years’ resolutions are years old
And we’re still here.
Shingle between my toes
- I do not look back at the cliffs –
This is not the place.
Lauren returns, holding a shell for me.
All the bluebells at the top of the world dance in her eyes.