Third Beach, Port St Johns

by Pam Newham

Like smoke but cold around us.
Hauling beach trappings and children
we walk into it.
Fog.
No sea although through
the white a sound like waves.

After a while it lifts and we see
shapes, faint at first,
familiar and impossible.
Cows.
Such solid ghosts these.

They watch us with unbaffled eyes
as if we with spades and buckets
and beach towels are out of place
Cows.
Come to lick the salt.

Later we swim
naked as seals.

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