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Kicking the pebbles along Eastbourne beach
as the orange-pink of sunset
plays with the ebbing tide,
my mother asks…
I feel it, first as a stir,turning deep in the murky water.Surfaces up for air, a twitchon the lake in my head.A flip, and it disappears.
We watch them, hypnotized.Pale and mysterious,They rise and fall. Joe says“They look like ghosts.”
The jellyfishdances through the waterwaving its frilly underwear.
We found one on the beach.
It had become a polythene bagfull of water.
Babies in the bath do it
puddles on the path do it
grannies for a lauch do it
Splish! Splash! Splosh!
Dirty welly boots do it
Who’d want to steal dew?
Maybe not me, maybe not you?
Then again, if you’d discovered
that dewdrops were heaven’s pearls
(the precious spittle of the stars