A taste of lemonade and cloudless skies,
and striped like windbreaks lined up in the sand,
we always bought a stick of rock for him.
Sat back like dunes that scroll horizon lines,
he’d hold a piece between his plastic teeth,
until the rock was porous plover bone.
With teeth that itched to chew, and shadowed by
his years, that cast him into weathered rock,
we waited for the Granddad that we knew
was barefoot in the chilling gasp of waves,
and watched us run the sand between our palms –
reward for years of work that blackened sweat.
Amidst the grimy screech of wheels and brakes,
imagination sparked among the coals,
on track for next year’s seaside holiday.
And at the journey’s end, what honeyed days
lay in that taste he savoured on his tongue –
like each fat note that swells a whistle’s tune –
as if to keep the sweetness set in place,
so even when the winter withered in,
those summers stayed within his candy eyes.
Poet of the Month June 2016
Cherry in the arms of her Granddad.