Barmouth Beach

I still see the waves,

pounding the sea-front.

A younger version of myself

goading the tide,

watching gulls navigate the

broken, blackening clouds.

I’m swept away

back to the car by my Mother,

as rain starts to crash

in through

the open sunroof, onto laps

and foiled sandwiches.

The damp sand besmirches the

mat at my feet, smudging gold onto

black.

Purple hands hold wet cones

of chips on the promenade

with one hand, the other

feeding 2p machines until fat; waiting

for them to vomit coins.

Splintered light

pushes through the crowded clouds

to hit the back of my neck as

we start to drive home.

 

© National Poetry Labs

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