In a seaside street,
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I politely duck
the wink of a gypsy's lavender,
before resting a while
upon someone else's memory.
But this is mine!
And it's like I've never left.
Overhead, the same gulls, still,
slice through acres of air.
Polished by seasons, the same sunlit cobbles, still,
look like tumbled stones, or unnamed constellations.
The same people, in myriad pastel shades, still,
blow by me like an artist's impression, and
there's you, still,
by still, coming into focus;
a film you wrote. And
when I watch you, barely five
years away from where I sit,
all of a sudden I can see
how five-going-on-six you've got...
- your stitched grin to open any lock;
your too-big t-shirt, shorts and wellies
that all looks like your big sister's stuff,
because it is; yellow beach
bucket, lifted like a trophy, and a huge orange
crab that's exactly like the giant beetle you say it is;
wet eyes -
at which point days break apart, and
the street's a photo;
wish you were here.
Colin Baker August 2008