clouds flying
like kites
at a beach fair
sky-white streamers
trailing shore
windblown sand
on our boiled eggs
and eggshell
falling through fingers
as we talk
between mouthfuls
about our changing bodies
and friends who’ve left
and lovers who lie
about our children
growing into
and out of school
and me being single
and her not
and wanting to visit
the pilgrims’ caves in Fife
and a holy isle
but she’s already been
and our toes
touching the
pink thrift
and machair
like a wedding
amongst sand
and prickles
and remembering the names of trees
and when we met
And the heat
22 degrees
on a Tuesday in September
taking our tops off,
feet in
but not swimming,
not today
but the old man is
there he is, tops off
in the sun
And taking the long way around
and running out of beach
turning back
and talking about buying a tent
and standing
in the sea
barefeet to the horizon
wondering what it’s like
to be an explorer
and if we’ve still got time
Skye Reynolds 