I knew grass and mud and brick and a thick hand,
but not trees or the sea and sand
until the age of three, one summer
decamping with my mum to a hut
where she, with her ant-like waist
and an aunt in tow, would frolic menless,
in snazzy frocks, and dance to the wireless, tunes
I could still hear down by the sea, clambering rocks.
And just so much air. Everywhere.
I cartwheeled forever on new-cut grass.
Instinctively, breezing temporarily.
Airily whizzing in a sunlit now, legs lashed
in cooling dew, I could freely drift
along the sea-shore, sun-splashed
And as the wind rushed by on
eyes squinted star-bright
I would run and run and run, the only curfew night.