she began a lifelong crush on the sea
The second you looked away,
and from a chipped tin mug
sipped your cooled Earl Grey,
you realised she had gone.
Left nothing but the echoed crunch
of pine needles in her wake.
Determined in jelly shoes,
she raised a plastic pail din,
inside her treasure trove
lay a scrap of a fish, pale golden,
gills weak, who gave a Sinch
and winked a glassy eye.
With brown knees, and pinafore hem,
she was led by a beckoning stream,
over mellow dunes.
Crossed to the Espiguette,
as dappled Camargue horses
cantered by.
And where water and skyline
forged a tryst, she began
a lifelong crush on the sea.
Skinny arms scratched
by horsemint scrub
and splintered cone,
she swept a singular path,
through the fig-scented coves,
dug a shallow grave upon the shore.
Finally, her bucket empty,
burial complete.
At four she knew already,
the importance of coming home.