Five pebbles lie on my bookshelf

to remind me of this trip, they

come from a beach,

a beach of small pebbles

all the way to the water's edge,

not a grain of sand in sight.

The early morning tide comes

rolling in, and I bend down,

sinking my right hand into the

Irish Sea, it is cold. Withdrawing

my hand I taste the saltwater

on my tongue, and I am

back again some fifty years

or more on that same beach.

All my yesterdays are looking over

my shoulder as I throw a stone

into the sea, and watch as it goes

under the swell of grey waves,

a futile re-enactment of a

childhood passion . . .

The man has found the child at last,

as fifty years goes roaring past.

I'm sure I have a curse on me . . .

of remembering too much.