Seeking the child, he was when he was ten,
The fearlessness he took for granted then,
A freedom that he makes his mind to reach,
By running down a sand dune at the beach.
A schoolboy who anticipates the rush,
Negotiates a dune covered with brush,
With seashells sharp enough to slice his feet,
Like tiny pebbles on a dead-end street,
Like fallen needles under thirsty pine.
He loves the smell of seaweed stirred in brine,
The warm sand feeling nice between his toes,
And on his skin when he removes his clothes.
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