Shingle

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One year on, back to the beaches
where you walked, the cliff path
erupting with pinks, your bones grassed over.

Clouds scudded from a continent
you’d embraced at arm’s length: above
the seagull vortices, deepening blue

you once sailed with the thermals.
And me, boots on, anchored
to the twice daily baptism of earth,

the roundness of its margins. Along the bay
the pull and tug, calming clatter
of a million lumps of granite. I took two,

black and oval, slashed with quartz,
perfectly caressed by years of salt:
held one, threw one back.

This poem was selected for the anthology The Very Best of 52.
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