I want to find my barefoot self

has she been waiting all this time

here in St Ives?

 

A little girl, I saw the beatniks on the pier

was mesmerised, left something there –

my raggetty-black-jumpered self

playing a guitar.

 

At Troika studio, pocket money spent –

something from the seconds shelf.

And a ceramic pendant, orange like the sun

on a long black leather thong.

 

Well, little girl,

done art school, motherhood, marriage and divorce.

Now I find myself here in St Ives again.

Children grown, mother, father, lover gone.

 

So shall I stay here

waiting on the beach for her?

Perhaps she’ll seek me out

I’m lonely now

I need her company.

I know she’s somewhere.

And her feet are still sandy.