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The Treasure Of My Youth II
When I am lost, in grief, or in pain,
I retreat to a place and a time of power,
a magical place that keeps me sane,
I stray there for an hour.
Gentle green waves lap the shore,
causing pebbles to rattle and slide,
ceaslessly seething on the beach of fine shingle.
Beyond the head the breakers roar,
whilst two small boys skim stones on the tide.
A large dog, gives chase to hauty gulls,
who scream their salt caked obscenities.
This is my place, where I choose to hide,
with my dog and my brother at my side.
For forty years on, I savour the smell,
the salt tang and the rotting wrack,
as fresh in my mind as the new bread,
under a cloudless, wide, blue sky.
With the thundering surf beyond the head
I grasp a small stone, polished, red,
a perfect sphere, ribboned with gold,
Jasper and pyrite, forged by the gods,
and I still have it,
the treasure of my youth.
