Hull, August 1993
by Gail
It was a long day, a sudden trip to the coast,
with the rain mocking us intermittantly,
tapping its codes on the windshield.
We waited it out, my mother cheering us
with her optimistic forecast,
lifting her chin defiantly at the downpour
until the sky closed and cleared.
We played miniature golf, rode the old
carousel at dusk, dropped tokens
into spastic pinball machines,
and, not wanting to get back into the car
and return to our regular lives,
in the salty dark, we walked down
the concrete stairs to the firm cool sand.
I rolled up my shorts and drifted into the small waves,
to sing of love and death, of hate and life,
trying to sing my pain into the sea
and leave it there.
It took longer that time to return.
