Great, grand father
My great-grandmother lovered the sea –
don’t tell granddad,
but his mum shivered, she proper burned cold
at the sight of that sun on that water,
white horses lacing over not-quite-blue.
She dived, bless her,
ankles up, eyes wide and salty.
Fingers raking the waves, she flamed,
and the tide flamed
a deep roaring green.
I was told she whirled like carousels
or little fish,
tangled up in such corally shapes
that her brain turned creaturely with love,
but I don’t exactly know.
But I bet it was great,
being rolled and rolling
with marine tenderness,
mad to screeching
then silence, and the shore.
She padded home, damply, after and she
cried and she told no one but her sister
why her baby’s eyes held brine and starfish.