the girl in a short red skirt, reading those same familiar white shells, washed and burnished in years of salt, twice more than tides reveal.
sugar and lemons, someone danced as absence bleaches tender bones. the way sand is window to waves.
then, someone said then, and it all resolved itself. the way sleep does and doesn’t do.
roof-top sun on drying stone.
earth don’t change. sea don’t change. even gulls.
yet put hand to where land ends. you feel the difference.
she was here.
neil reid © september 2013