The Shingle Beach

I remember the shingle beach

and the sand hills

pocked with warrens

and the way we scampered

making mini-avalanches,

summoning enough noise

to forbid the sea

from her crashing.

Then Mother would call us in,

towel us dry,

and the surf would re-instate

her thunder

and the candles would gutter

as we dreamed.

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