Children Poem by Nick Burbridge

Somewhere among crisp packets and curled plasters,
where the nightlights can’t reach,
push the door shut,
and come to me, naked and quiet.

Through brash hours, when they turn us in a shrill dance,
mark the half-glance that comes to rest,
the brush of arms: unstopped cadences
that summon and echo dark moments of belief.

And when we trail down to the bright shore,
laden with canvas and plastic, swim out, too far,
watch them in the shallows; where we are beyond them,
and ourselves, cleave to me, still, out of depth.