It is soft rain when you wear clouds
on a day in the holidays you should never remember
in the seaside with a beach of stones
where the palm tree is painted each winter-
the beach you never walked straight on,
the day the brownie camera impaled you,
the beach where you left a time capsule to float.
Even now you ask, and they say the same,
those just a scratchy dream, those with breath
who stood in sunlit gardens or sat by frosted trees,
each turned your flesh into a map for what they had lost.
You looked and found the beach alone with the sea,
streets dancing with leaves,
houses blowing net curtain kisses,
car doors swinging with cats poised to pounce.
And the cheering is still loud and windows
of flickering light take memories
and makes a forest of pine darkness,
so you found myths to stop the blood.
It is a day when the bullet made it six-coloured.
This is you with barbed wire scratches.
This is you at the window, face like a moon
while the one who carried you and the one who made you
stared at black and white history.
Your history makes them turn round
to a day of sunshine on the beach of sand
where the light made the sea a place to walk on forever.