Arromanches
by Andrew Lyons
Barefoot on French sand
I Imagine a photograph with England
Invisible in the background:
Just the three of you near the water, but only you
Face the sun and camera with prescription glasses
And a smile made curious by the glare;
Erin buries her face, her yellow hat folded
Into your chest; and Keira intrepid
For the shutter, strides towards more blue than she has ever seen,
And her step is large with sand dusted feet
Sore inside wet canvas sandals.
Beside my feet a plastic bucket and a half dug moat
That we leave to fill, until overflowing
It dissolves, as clammy green weed grabs our ankles.
The camera clicked and we ran after shoes
That the rising sea lifted carry and threw
Up the beach, with my rolled socks for passengers.