My Seaside Life

The glimpse of light on the waves from the cliff top
sparkling, shimmering, far from Scotland
lit up my childhood summers.
It never rained on my coastal haven.
We dug boats and cars in the sand,
I stepped on a weaver fish and screamed
all the way to the first aid tent.
'One year the skin on your back peeled right off!'
My mother re-feels the guilt
all these years later.

I couldn't believe my luck when
my seaside turned Mediterranean.
I had breasts by then
and suncream, and
my freckled skin turned brown.
I lived in another language,
I ate cherries by the medio-kilo,
I drank cava by the litre,
I surfed love recklessly, and
without regret.


Then my seaside moved to a distant shore.
A place of temples and gardens, earthquakes and tsunamis -
the sea held back by concrete blocks.
I turned to the mountains and climbed up and down
until my knees laughed.
Inevitably London called:
the swell of people, music, art and noise
pulled me in.
I worked hard. I stayed late.
And then I let go.

I glimpse the light on the waves from the Oval.
My seaside now is a Channel.
Rubbed with Lidl Cien Sun
I skip past Marine Court.
The waves roll, crest, crash, spray, churn and turn calm -
I rush in, splash, kick, bob, laugh.
The taste of salt on my lip as I sip
my post-swim pre-work flat-white
I'm young. I'm old.
I'm here.