A Wave

 

  
A Wave
I look down at the line

that the tide has left,

darkening the pebbles as it retreats

back into its unlocked line of defence.
The dry stones are almost white,

salt bleached, amnesiac.

The wet ones glisten, sepia slick

as the thin wave sighs, leaves.
We came here as kids,

this beach:

the pain of pebbles

under soft skin

as we inched our way in.

Dad’s newspaper flapping like a flag,

gulls shrieking,

Mam against the sun, waves,

  a camera shuttering –

         click.
IOB 26.5.15 

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About Ian O'Brien

I am a teacher and scribbler, living in Manchester, UK.
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