We’re sat in Emily’s car,
the three of us,
all berry-mouthed
our sunglasses tucked
in beach-bleached hair
and sand still stuck
in the eyelets next to laces,
sat on towels,
sweltering.
And on shuffle comes
that Radiohead song
that reminds me of
something I can’t remember
– it doesn’t matter, anyway –
there is only today,
this fast-slow day.
Each time I dip my toes
in the wake of the waves of the
future, the wake ebbs over them,
then shrinks away.
We’re sat in Emily’s car,
and Emily asks
if we were fated to be friends,
whether we would’ve found each
other, had we not met how we did.
I say yes,
I am sure of it.
Just how
some people are born
with reading holes for eyes –
they do not merely read
books but devour them –
we were surely born
to find ourselves in this car
as the sand dries
and falls off our feet…
How many grains of sand
does it take to make a heap?
And Abbie pipes up –
you’re being too deep.
And we’re laughing again
like we do on the beach.
Somewhere,
the sun is setting,
you can picture the scene:
three girls sat dangling
out the doors of a car,
sea salt and suncream,
we dream,
we dream.
