She's in her element
By Jane Seabourne
You’re in your element, our mother said,
unpacking all my seaside stuff: costume,
bucket, wooden spade. A performance
with our father and a towel, so he could change
with dignity, miners fortnight,
Porthcawl, 1958. Herself, she never changed,
staying in her summer frock, sleeves pushed up:
to catch a bit of sun. Camped out on the sands,
watching over everyone, while we splashed in the waves.
Tides turned, I went to make my way to her.
Faced another sea, a million mothers. Parching fear.
Until I homed in on her sun-warmed arms.
I guess her element was fire.
