I leave my shoes
behind, to feel the sand.
It could be Redcliffe, or Sandgate
Or Bribie Island.
But it’s not.
We spend the next hour looking for shells,
While the dog runs madly in circles.
The beach is empty.
Apart from the gulls
And a jelly fish.
A young girl walks by,
eating a sausage on a stick.
A couple of teenagers
Sit on a bench
holding hands.
But the beach is empty.
These are not my memories.
I’m stepping on
someone else’s sand.
© The Dishonest Woman
