So, you sped to the sea
as thoughts formed a Cornish town.
Recollected unshelled prawns
in a bag, bought by the jetty,
flung scraps to tame gulls;
a recast of Hitchcock’s “The Birds”
Heard the sweep swish of foam
against supportive pillars.
Walked along wooden boards,
gaps between, glimpses of barnacles
that clung a Morrison studded belt,
yet lasted longer than any sealife
or doomed dune lizard king.
Sand has filled a child’s buckets
to cover your stray footsteps
a few castle lifetimes since then,
but this old postcard has no stains,
and the Queen reveals only a coffee tan
in the new morning table sun.
