Leif Hede-Brierley

At The Beach

I can remember
The off-white debris-strewn sand;
The cement barrier,
That wall
Blocking me
From the surge.

I can remember
Being weightless, hoisted over
That blockade
In my dad’s strong grasp
Ready to run across
The unknown.

I can remember
The yellow plastic
Of the truck;
The satisfying crunch
Of its front-end loader
Lifting the sand.

I can remember
The races,
Huge boots outpacing
Small sneakers splashing
The tenuous tide that touched
Our feet.

And that water
Was not cold
As the fall air would suggest.
It rather held the
Traditional warmth
Of my dad and me

At the beach.







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