Return

At the lip of the beach, just before the rushes end,

is a desire line,

where puffins occasionally hang out (if you look elsewhere)

and where hares go to sort out their domestic politics.

Those little paths made up of non-conformist choices;

three feet and a million miles away from the new tarmac,

and our need to wander.

It was always warm for me.

I would lay my head down and hear the warmth jump up

and the smell of the fraoch, the heather,

would make me feel safe and slightly dangerous.

There was a conspiracy between us.

We had a saucer of larks and the song of the waves

and the bark of an occasional seal

and I was the variable.

And then you jump down,

Where weather and tide and wind and time

have broken your banks a bit.

Until the next high tide.

The seaweed like the pencil-mark

my grandfather put on the door to his office

when we were growing.

“If you’re cold, run up and down the beach”

and sandwiches.

You deafened me as a child.

I thought you were god.

I became aware of what you could take,

but know now what you gave.

And it’s better to sit, to stare,

To have the breath teased away from you.

That feeling of cool wash when you meet your friends,

a relief unearned nor asked for, relief.

Better than anything in a glass.

Better than I’ve ever felt.

To see the melba glow of your sleepy horizon

But did you know that I know your secrets?

I feel old now.

But remember the glimmer and mischief

of the small fishes at the moon’s wax,

as I drunkenly tried to hug the world

and tell you I loved you.

Your temper,

oft forgotten,

but intriguing and scary

and the father of my bravery.

That time I nearly drowned trying.

That time that wee girl died.

I find the desire line with clumsy, numb feet,

dressed better than I want. Relying on the stick.

I see you, my scarred beach, my heart.

Trá Dhearg, the red strand.

You have never lost your colour.

We’ve never discussed it