The Strand
I am three years old,
we walk along the strand, mother and I.
The tide’s coming in,
new smells in an unknown place,
the breeze battering my ears,
filling my hair with knots and sand.
Against the sea and sky he stands, my Dad,
trousers legs rolled up,
white chalk skin, unforeseen,
sober now all pubs are closed.
There are others too,
faces hidden that laugh,
knowing things I cannot know.
He turns to the sea,
his back to me.
I am three years old, cold.
The wind howls.
He walks further out,
the water eating his feet.
Her hands grip mine,
I scream.
I scream.
The strand is huge,
I hate it.
Swallowing my sobs.
‘Shush,’ she says as my father turns,
out from the ocean,
back into childhood memory.
