My children spill from the car like herrings
sluiced from a bucket, sheened from back-seat heat.
I school across road these shiny fingerlings
and plant in the sand their water-pale feet.
I peel off coral culottes, yellow tops;
squealing merfolk, their sturdy arms raised
float and sway like anemone on rocks.
Freed, they run naked to the sea's lick, and wave
while I sink to towel, bones like ice cream
under sun. In the cafe kitchens, blue
mussels scrubbed of their anchoring threads, brim
tin pails. I scan for points of my heart's hue -
like Seurat's bather, they cup hand to mouth,
into the luminous silence, they shout.
By Cynthia Woodman Kerkham
I love the atmosphere of this poem, but there are some lines that I cannot quite understand.
Good Morning Thursday 30th July 2026
What has survived in your garden with minimal or no watering?
Daughter not allowed to know new baby’s name until she visits him

