The Secret Pages: Y Traeth

The small stuff; shells and stones
ground to smaller, to suspended dust
masking with green-grey safe-standing in the sea;
all slips slowly Northwards with the waves.

How far has the sand drifted since:

I was last at the beach eight years ago?

my three-year-old declared hatred
of this nasty beach?

I found out about longshore drift in Geography?

the concave concrete sea defences
replaced the crenellated edging of the prom,
and the channel to Ynys y Brawd was closed
blanking the old patterns of tide and sand?

I discarded a found razor shell
for missing a quarter end of one side,
dooming it to be shredded to calcium cubelets?

they nearly launched the lifeboat
for an abandoned pair of pants?

that family photo: your parents, brother,
and you leaning back between your taid’s knees,
relaxed, smiling, comfortable.

you fell over on the prom
driving a fragment of china into your right eye,
blurring your vision for the next sixty-seven years
and leading to the monocle?

hen-taid drifted across the estuary from Arthog
beginning our story in Ardudwy?

Doggerland disappeared?

the generations of neanderthals
were over taken by sapiens sapiens?

the land first opposed the sea
(warm, southern water, not Cardigan Bay
fit only for swimming from mid-August)?

there first was a sea
trying stone against stone
modest billions ago?


Y Traeth: The Beach.