365 Poems: 24 – 5.45 am (Very rough first draft)
Waves curl up against the bottom of your spine.
When you turn around, I can see your smile,
clear, untroubled, like you hold all of the control
in the world in one hand.
Your breasts are white and wet,
dipping as you bob up and down in the surf.
I’m embarrassed, kick a cluster of bottle caps
and thick stubs of green glass, smoothed,
rounded by the sea.
I move on, sand nipping skin
between my toes, irritating my ankles.
There’s a small, neat heap of belonging.
On top of jeans and a t-shirt, folded
so the creases meet, is an anthology
of poetry, a marker midway.
An i phone has slipped from an open pocket
in a black bag, and is gently sinking into the sand.
Your shoulder blades are triangular,
prominent, beautiful. You flip,
and start swimming backstroke.
I want to cup my hands over my mouth,
shout that the sea is strong,
that you need to be careful,
but what are the chances you’d listen?
You know what’s you’re doing
You’re moving fast now, towards the horizon,
hazy with the sunrise, and I worry, because
I’m scared of the sea. Coming here today
was a challenge, and I know that if you
were to get into any sort of trouble,
I wouldn’t be able to save you.
Nervous, I squeeze my eyes closed,
and when I open then you’ve gone,
like part of me hoped you would be.
The sea is still and grey and silent,
like nothing has happened
and nothing will.
The image that inspired this poem.