Brighton Beach

Brighton Beach

I crossed my legs,
And drew my coat tight,
And all the while,
The wind made dancers
Of the waves.

The pebbles,
Rattled and grumbled
Then settled,
Under me.

And I felt very small.

And each stone was a
Thousand souls.

And my head felt bruised
With numbers.

Two women,
Were facing down
The cold sea.
Holding hands,
As they
Inched away from England.

One was very old,
And her movements
Were slow,
And full of nerves.

The other,
Her daughter,
Perhaps,
Stood close.

Never letting go of her hand.

She turned to her mother and said things,
Little spells,
To make her strong enough.
And the words worked.

With the land at their backs,
They moved with the water.
A shy, and frail
Foxtrot.

The younger woman dropped,
Suddenly,
Beneath the water.

For
One
Clean
Second.

And after that,
Her Mother,
Did too.

And the daughter laughed,
And stumbled,
But never let go of her hand.

They bobbed and squealed,
And if I closed my eyes,
They were the same.

And I thought, maybe,
They had been here before.
When youth
Was still
A keen embrace.

And she had taken her daughter,
For the very first time,
In to the ocean.

Making sure she bought the words,
That were needed,
To give her
Strength enough.

And being careful,
Never to let go
Of her hand.

And when, eventually,
Her daughter
Had felt it for herself.

Had made friends
With the tide,
And struck out alone.

Well, even then,
As she watched her
Swim away,
Towards the sky,
She whispered her own incantations,
And said goodbye.

Without ever,
Truly,
Letting go
Of her hand.

Copyright. All rights reserved. Niall Hollaert 2020