Time for another poem, from a collection of ten new poems I’m working on at the moment.
This one’s about childhood memories of days out at Saltburn-by-Sea on Britain’s windy, frigid north east coast.
My little brother Jon and I spent many a happy afternoon messing about on Saltburn beach with our folks. But I never actually swam in the sea until I moved to Brighton at nineteen years old. People don’t swim in the North Sea much. You’d have to be incredibly hardy. Or just mad.
I take the pebble to mum first.
She tells me it’s beautiful.
Dad examines it, proclaiming “Hm, porphyry”,
before smashing it with his geological hammer,
just to be sure.
I decide to collect sea shells instead,
dodging the frilly lace-rushes of the chilly, shallow North Sea waves,
feet pale blue,
raw with cold on the hard pink sand.