Wells-next-the-Sea

Two months, they said
or with luck factored in, up to a year.
By then you’d abandoned luck,
decided to throw a party immediately.

It would last all weekend
in your favourite place –
a gaggle of caravans
hidden behind the dunes.

We waited for guests in our tin box,
rain clog-dancing on the roof.
It took two boxes of matches,
the best part of an hour, to light the fire

and I wanted to tell you
I can’t do this. I can’t celebrate
knowing you, then losing you
before you’ve even finished school.

But you were lolling on a pile of cushions
head back, listening to the sea.
Come and sit by the mirror, you said.
I’m going to show you

how to do your eyes.
You’ll see how easy it is,
and when I’m finished
you won’t know yourself.

Kate Rhodes

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