You can hear the stream tickle
the rocks. You meant trickle
but I prefer your word and run my nail up
the bumps of your spine –
making your shoulders ripple.
Here the stream runs through the beach,
cutting the sand and spreading her legs –
letting salt seep in. It’s low tide,
the orange-brown beach is glossed
by water like a photo
of my childhood. I help
as you try to flood a hole
almost surprised when the sand swallows
every bucketful of sea.
To the north – the landscape rewinds:
black rock tumbles up
to gorse; roots pull earth
back to purple moor.