Abersoch, 12:30pm, June 2nd 2012
One strip of sand blooms into a desert.
The emerald and indigo of my beach towel,
an oasis, and the sea - the sea is a secret,
a green-grey memory as far away as a mirage.
Those white lines in the distance -
are they masts or flagpoles?
The two black humps of island
are mirror images of each other;
the curves of a sea monster
with its nose nudging the lighthouse.
A heart-shaped jellyfish melts into the sand.
Like a marble, it is glassy blue with green
and purple tendrils twisting at its centre.
Ripped from the ribcage of waves,
it is left at the edge of forever,
as quiet and impermanent as love.
I tread carefully.
I follow in my own footprints, curling
towards the cliff. With no internet access
or phone signal I am retreating back into
my own prehistoric years, where fishnets
are for rock-pooling and not for legs.
Here are the starfish from four years
of phone call worthy grades - and there,
the one black rock my mother wishes
she'd never told the world about.
Perhaps in the dunes I will find the crushed
butt from my first cigarette, or the scattered
syllable-shells of last year’s poem.
Each June I make this pilgrimage;
a centre of gravity for the year's subtle orbit.
I return, an over-exposed negative of myself -
a duplicate with a different inner silhouette.
The beach always stays the same,
but, without meaning to,
I change and change and change.