I take them home, in boardies and a T,
two little black-haired boys,
bobbing around the back seat.
As their briny tang and sand-smiles
unravel into sleep, I slip unnoticed
into the shrivelled concrete womb.
Amid hugs and goodbyes, I fight
the urge to floor it and instead,
drive slowly, a tourist in my own town.
I crawl through the streets
where we skipped until dusk
and our mothers called us in for bed,
past the once communal lawns
(now territorially fenced)
that had been our Olympic Park–
the high jump constructed from
bamboo sticks and pegs, the sprint finish
a borrowed washing line.
I linger at the still manicured patch of green
where I had lain and kissed the boy
whose name became my own
and then I left
knowing that one day
they too would leave
in search of their own beach.