If you think till it hurts
you can almost do it without getting off that chair
scare yourself
within an inch of the heart
of the prompt of a word.
How old are you now?
This is what happens -

the child
and not in sepia
lives,
you can see her;
comes up the beach
alone;
bucket and spade.
In her bucket, a starfish, seaweed,
a dozen alarming crabs
caught with string and a mussel.
Don't move.
Trow.

Go to the sound of the sea,
don't try to describe it,
get it into your head;
and then the platinum blaze of the sun as the earth
seemed to turn away.
Now she is kneeling.
This is about something,
Harder.
The rеd spade
scooping a hole in the sand.
Sеa-water seeping in.
The girl suddenly holding a conch, listening, sssh.
You remember that cardigan, yes?
You remember that cardigan.

But this is as close as you get.
Nearly there.
Open your eyes.
Those older, those shaking, hands cannot touch
the child
or the spade
or the sand
or the seashell on the shore;
and what
what would you have have to say,
of all people,
to her
given the chance?
Exactly.