to the mothers of girls…

I watched the woman and her tiny child
bonneted; every shade of pink
clad in illustrated rubber boots
to stay the waters foamy-edged invasion.

One foot, two feet; plopped onto the sand
until a comic Chaplinesque sequence
had carried her
from shiny treasure shell to shiny treasure shell.

All the while the woman stayed nearby
quick to steady her; mindful of a fall
the sharp stones that waited on the ground
to split apart a still unsullied skin.

From between her milk-fat, wind-ruddied cheeks
a crescent moon of pristine pearls appeared
and two minikin starfish; sand encrusted
reached upwards; a show and tell -“Mummy, Sand.”

I knew them but did not approach; walking further on
as the sea washed the shore. I knew them and
I kept them close
but I did not look back.

She will feel the tide drag the water from the sand
the shoreline forever altered.  She will mourn when
first words are lost upon the biting wind of change
when seasons turn and pink is no longer the favoured hue.

Those precious pearls will loosen, fall; hid beneath a sleeping head
stole by faeries in the midnight ink and bit by bit
the child will unfold until the blush of her cheek; tone of her lips
are drawn with a new kind of crayon.

I will see the woman again at the water’s edge; alone.
grateful; we will sink our toes in the cooling, fast-fading footfalls
made and left by our line; our children just a blink of the eye from us
shaded pink among the shiny treasure shells.

Garden, Summer 1970

oh to revisit the church of my faith; dunk my feet in warm suds, swipe at the cool grass
gulp down the sweet, dilute juice. Amanda, Jane, Dolly, Ted, lined up to dry; naked

legs splayed in a spiritless vinyl salute to the sun. If I prayed it was to stay the execution
of those days, to ward off the blow of September and the return to school.

On long evenings, when the others had gone for hot baths, I laid under the shade
of the tepee and counted on my fingers, the painted feathers hidden in the canvas folds.

Soft, devout, I reassured my silent, newly fragrant friends,of my dedication, my mother’s love
and chewing on green acid gum, I realigned them, tucking them tight into blue blanket beds.

An After School Swim

At the water’s edge I lay in the easy company of the dragonfly
somnolent; beguiled by the chirrup of the crickets in the long grass
I watch, wait for the gentle kiss of the carp to break the surface still.

Long shadows are cast by the sunlight that filters through the trees
glorious as it meets late summers eve
but then with whoops and shouts, stirring the sediment to brew

a muddy ale; a sudden commotion. Marauders! Invaders! Jeers and catcalls ring out
as becalmed becomes a boiling sea of flailing arms
of jumps in and boisterous splashing’s and ducking’s of the head.

Pudgy toes glide in the slime, and sticky mud is drawn into the crevices
in the skin as frogs bark alarm calls and ducks depart the water in a flap
and boys spout, spray in splendid sparring ‘I can spit furthest’ shows.

Laughing they pummel the losers, hold aloft the champions, their shoulders, faces
freckling in the glare. They dive, seeking cities lost to the river bed, surface
empty handed, flecked with scum.

In a while the water cools and their skin is pricked and mottled blue
and the breeze, lit like a still green stick, sings soft through the leaves above
setting them adrift on the water, meandering unhurried to the grassy banks.

Rousing cries fall to idle talk, teeth chatter and sweaters are dragged over wet, wild hair
as short trousers are staggered into and wrinkled, cold-white feet squelch into plimsolls
before the boys, tired, empty-bellied make for home.

In moments they are gone; swallowed by the trees and only echoes
and a trail blazed by feet and sharp sticks trampling the meadow grass
remain. Vanquished, doleful I return to my idling; wait for the kiss of the carp.