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From Boat People by Tim Jones
Here, standing on the beach, is Dad.
Black and white. He holds an oblate stone
He holds it poised for skimming. Out
I snapped him with my old Box Brownie. His eyes
A lifetime of failing to swim
Smaills Beach, and the swell is rising
Too rough to swim, even for the swimmers:
One moment, I'm in my depth
Swept into a hollow instead, the air
I jump and wave and jump again
I jump and wave and jump again.
They drag me out
they press me down amid the lupins.
watching them buy me an ice cream
head battered by the rocks, heart
Smaills Beach, where I split in two: