Verity Jones

It was her hat caught my eye –
a red beret. It blew, skittish,
along the sand; miles I ran.
Recaptured it, eventually.

“Thank you,” she said,
as I placed it in her hand.
“It’s got a life of its own!”
Anchored on her head
by a wing and a prayer.
Verity Jones was her name.

Peckish, we ate lunch –
a strawberry shake
and some fries.
She lost a sandal
hunting for shells
when a playful wave
knocked her off her feet.

Her T-shirt soaking wet
I gave her mine.
She sniffed the hem –
said it smelled of the sea.
I counted the freckles
on her dimpled cheeks.

We watched the moonrise –
the sunset sky mirrored
in eyes that clearly belied
what her lips said. “This,
the first time.”
Bodies entwined
we slept beneath the pier.

A milk-white dawn
awoke me. I was alone.
She was long-gone
so was my wallet
and my mobile phone.
In their stead a red beret
with a mind of its own.

Verity by name
but not by nature
was my Miss Jones.