Beach
1. Low Tide
We wander, sometimes close, sometimes apart,
thrumming with the heady glow of new love,
the satisfying crunch of dry sand beneath our feet
giving way to the softer suck of wetness
close to the ocean’s edge. Days to come stretch
vaguely ahead, a sense of continuing togetherness
reassuring, as if we have all the time in the world.
We gather shells, laugh, smell the sea-filled air,
feel the salt wind brush our faces.
2. High Tide
So narrow,
this strip of pebbles
and seaweed-strewn
gritty sand.
I step gingerly.
My walking pole
provides support.
I’m old now,
not unhappy
but alone.
I search out
pretty shells
but leave them be.
We came here once
but memory fades.
The sense of you
has dimmed.
Tonnie Richmond lives in Leeds and has spent many summers as a volunteer archaeologist in Orkney. She has had poems published by Yaffle, Dragon/Yaffle, Dreich, Leeds Trinity University and others.
Black Nore Review 