Weston 1969

Waves break, ferocious on the sand,
and you brave the waves,
pushing steadfastly through the surf,
to the calm water beyond.
Tucked under the dunes, I sit and watch,
until you re-appear, stout in your heavy black costume,
shaking off seawater, then towelling yourself dry.
Marram grass, and a thin sliver of sand.
Early in the morning, we walk to the dairy,
and collect jugs of warm milk.
And in the late evening sun, you bathe me
in a deep porcelain sink. Through the window,
the empty street below,
and a wide expanse of ocean beyond.