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Poets and artists

She's in her element

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, on the wind-whipped Coney Beach,
Porthcawl. Circa 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.

Tide turned, I went to make my way to her.
To face another sea of a million mums. Parching fear.
Until I homed in on her sun-warmed arms.
I guess her element was fire.