The Beach

It is winter now,
no more sun,
no more sea.
My nostrils used to fill,
like a glass of water,
fill with salty goodness.
My hair would drip,
like a leaking tap onto
the soft carpet.
And the walls were grey,
like the mist lines at Cornwall.
I would listen to the seagulls squawking,
as loud as a car toot,
as close as a mirror.
I could’ve touched the
warm gritty sand as it slipped between my fingers.

Now I sit,
chilled to the marrow,
longing to be there again.
Be at my beach.