Easy when you know how
So you grab a handful of sand and let it run
through your sausage fingers
to catch the breeze
spinning off those grey, soapy waves
while one of us, I can’t remember who,
sinks their teeth into an ice cream. We clear a spot
in the shingle among the fag ends
and plastic cups and engineer
a hollow to get comfy before we chuck stones
at seagulls. We watch the dark clouds that sweep in like your relatives,
slump beneath a sign that warns us not to litter or let our dogs shit
on the stones where we sit, still wolfing down dry cod and clay-cold chips
near a clump of locals making early in-roads into their pints.
And while there’s not much talking going on we’re settled on
this: we’re happy to let the filthy wind
make our noses stream and flip gravel in our eyes,
for the likelihood of a wet arse , indigestion and the deep
tang of sewage and seaweed.
We’ll accept the hidden dog turds, condoms and lolly sticks buried in the beach
we’ll sip tea in the cafe while sheltering from drizzle and sticking to plastic seats.
When the sun comes out we analyse the filtered light.
We make our own weather forecast.
Niall Firth is a journalist who works for New Scientist. He lives with his wife and daughter in Walthamstow. He also lives on Twitter at @niallfirth where he divides his attention between science-y things and poetry things.