Holding castles

He dreams of castles on a Cornish beach
they visited, when he was eight years old.
For picnic pudding, Mum gives him a peach
and speaks of Roald Dahl. It’s all so gold,

the sun, the sand, his mother’s voice, the spade
and bucket she has bought him for the trip.
Her long fair hair is fastened in a braid
one side, descending to her rounded hip.

She shows him how a little water’s good
to hold the castles. Harry makes a ring
around her and she laughs. He finds some wood,
some shells, some slimy seaweed, anything

to keep her safe from pirates; she’s Sea-Queen,
so bright and beautiful through all their years
yet fading while he works. A ghostly green
of tide is rising, pounding in his ears.