Buckets full of crabs,
Decent shrimp, bigger fish than we’ve a right to land
With that children’s bamboo net; and a baby eel.
Satisfied, smug and sat, hands flat upon
Four inches of warm waves and corrugated sand
I’m braced against the unexpected sun
As lazy, loud gulls wheel above my head.

Secretly my two small sons
Manoeuvre behind me
Skip through no-man’s land
To within splashing distance, take aim, pause.
Fast hands and feet, sharp knees and elbows
Carve vast arcs of water through the latitude
And longitude of my exposed position. 
I roar and scatter their onslaught up the beach
To rocks and hideouts near warm dry mum.

Tucked up in bed that night, as sunburnt chins
Jut proudly out of crisp holiday sheets
I play dumb. “Who splashed me? My back was turned”.  
They know I know, but only just.
First comes the flat denial: “Not us, Dad”.
They share a sideways glance, then shout; “Pirates!”

And later, as kiss-curls and sleep-frowns merge
In the shadows and half-light 
I decide
That pirates it was. If by pirates they mean
Small shadows who creep up unannounced
And with clashing wills and smart demands
Have stolen into the unexpected places of my heart.

(photo: Doug Menuez)


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