Gail Anthea Brown

This is not a beach,

It is where over the dunes and across the road, my mother grew.

That is not a field,

It is where my grandfather tended to cattle, with one arm.

That is not a path,

It is where the beach leads to the village.

That is not a wall,

It is where my mother made porridge from childhood dreams.

That is not a cottage,

It is where husbands and wives and siblings and pet lambs lived.

That road is not a road,

It was the route I took when I was young once, and in love.

That track is not a track,

It is where my father taught me to drive where planes flew.

That barn is not a barn,

It is the place we danced on summer nights.

Those are not just trees,

That is the planting.

That is not a house,

That is where I split my chin dressed up in hats and too-big shoes.

That sound is not the sea,

It is the murmur of all of this.

That beach is not a beach and that road is not a road and that house is not a house.

_{This is not a Beach was first published in issue 40 of Northwords Now.}