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Poem


Hot summer afternoons 
and the call 
of glistening water lapped
a child's mind with a want.
Just home from work
we would pester our father
until he relinquished
and took us to the beach.

At low tide,
feet had to splash through 
what seemed like a mile 
of ridged and rippled shallows 
before the water was deep 
enough to swim
and wheeling arms 
could be swung 
without touching the bottom.

Heated all day 
by a January sun,
the water was as warm 
as pee. Long tentacles 
of dead, brown seaweed 
clung to arms
as if trying to snare
a soul in revenge 
for some storm torn horror
that had ripped it out its bed.

But all too often 
it ended the same.
Tramping back to shore
across the endless shallows,
feeling hotter than when
you first went in. Flies clouding 
sweaty faces and then
there was the hot vinyl
back seat of the car
to burn bums
on the way home.
All washed micraclessly 
from memory when, next day,
the mercury nudged 100
and a want
beckoned us to the beach again,
still no wiser 
than the day before.

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