Those were the days
when rectangles of ice cream came in waxed paper,
you had to peel it off and place the little block in the cornet
or sandwich it between two thin wafers.
The white confection would melt in the sun
dribble over my hands, down chubby arms,
mingle with sand, a sweet grit stuck to skin.
What I remember most was the hot pricking,
salt-pique in heat under the bathing suit,
scratching, itching.
Dad made castles just for me, and together
we chose paper flags to stick on top of tiny turrets –
with golden lions, red wolves, fiery dragons.
We’d dig a moat together and watch
as the tide came in to slowly wash it all away
in a sea of tears. I’d retreat to my rug
draw a big circle in the sand around me,
and no-one was allowed to cross the line.
do not disturb my sand, keep off!
I’m the Queen of the Castle.
