Fifteen
Dusk, high summer,
the sky streaked caramel.
Muffled shouts and dog barks
sweep the shoreline like radar;
the sand is strewn with jellyfish.
I thread back, reeled in through
marram and half-submerged lolly-sticks
till snagged in a sudden hollow.
Below, a young couple, their faces lit:
her smooth back curves into him like a shell.
* Having failed as a scrapyard worker, a handyman and a trainee teacher, Chris Tracy is hoping for better luck as a poet. He lives in Norwich.
