The grass grows longer on the easeway.
A pelican swipes the sky
towards the seascape we can't yet see,
its webby legs outstretched:
I wait for these,
for sunburn behind the knees,
for sand between the bedsheets,
champagne at dusk
and their unthinking ease.
They clap their chitin jaws
when we gut bream up on the sandbank,
this they augur:
to swallow fishheads
and stare with oyster eyes
at the tangle of tackle and flaked scales
that will sandcastle by our toes.
You grew up inland
and don't yet expect this.
We'll eat straight from unfurled paper,
and leave our oily fingerprints to refract,
buy coffee at the marina
(and it will taste like sump oil
and salt, but a tiny chocolate biscuit will balance
on the spoon.)
You have no history here,
and don't yet know this.
You can't yet read
for its undertow.