At Pagham

You leave the waves like a long-legged wader;

leave the froth and fizz of a sun-struck sea’s sighs.

Butterscotched patches of sand made butter pats,

flattened and pebble-pressed by high tides and toes.

Your mother’s shutter, enclosing like weather –

up by our clothes, closing in on our ocean.

She’s shooting the shoreline, freezing us in frame:

a silver lip lapping, blown beach in our teeth.