Sea

The first time
you pressed clumsy feet
on soft sand,
scummy wash slipping
through toes,
hands in your father’s.
Whisked up in wonder
as the wave crashed.

Each visit you forgot
the feeling of stones
dragged out from under
your own weight –
suddenly rooted
deeper than planned.
A tug in the stomach
lifting you up again.

And then you couldn’t believe
the heat of the sand
whispered ‘fuck’
and trotted shade to shade
skipping over sun-burnt stones
and over the hesitations of youth
to your first love.