Dadhood

We discover, in the composed rock pools, that absences hang over us

Echoes of their running footfalls, disturb the unmoved placement of shell, water, sand worm

The curve of the bay, like my daughter’s hair at ten, unkempt but perfect.

The settled stone fortress of order and chaos where land meets sea, like my son’s Lego games at nine

The swallow catching flies, darting over the wind, like their voices from the garden below

We force ourselves, to be in this picture now

Hold hands and try to fill the picture with ourselves

So this is getting old

Learning to be alone together in the landscape of their absences