I’ll have to attend to this by myself now,
selecting shells from the beach.
‘Here, what about this one’ you’d say,
reaching over a find.
I’ll have to do that other job on my own too.
So I stare at the sea hands jammed in pockets.
I hear the first year is a year of firsts;
the first sunrise, the first fish supper on a sea wall,
the first next album, the first skelf to be dug at; a new purse.
Hunkered I rake over the sand for a good shell.
Standing up I rear my chin to the sun, and care-less
a nice cream cone falls off my limp fingers.
Then I toss away a white thumb of quartz.
Too opalescent of grave gravel.
A horny oyster-half yawns like an old ashtray.
I just don't see the heart in it yet.