As if it feels the need to produce something
on a Monday morning, the sea proffers
a lazy swell, before giving in to the heat.
We crunch dark wrack into the semi-
cold, water like green vodka, before swimming out.
I float, an ungainly star; ears attune
underwater to the shush-bubble of a wave;
but I’m interrupted – Tim making Jaws music
– dood-dood, dood-dood, dood-dood, dood-dood,
dood-ah-da, his fin of quiff up close; he lands
a kiss on my cheek. We swim parallel to the beach
to our jumble of possessions: our bikes
like cut-outs against the dunes. We wade
back over pebbles, slightly different animals