Book of Eucalypt

(In honour of the thinning veils of Samhain and Beltane…)

They’re already running –
sandalled feet thumping over the old arch bridge,
the boards hollow and bright with sun.
They dive beneath the bridge where old laughter echoes as
hands carved tunnels through the cool grit
and favourite toys were hidden.

Beyond the path, the tables are set.
Two figures – elders –
unwrap sandwiches, slice apples,
talk the way sunlight talks through leaves.
The child clambers onto a bench,
a mouth full of story,
the kind only children tell without stopping.

Down towards the bay they run to the rocks –
clambering through the smell of seaweed,
fingers hunting for Little Shore crabs
beneath slick rocks along the sea wall.
I stand back watching –
half guardian, half ghost –
knowing every movement
before it happens.

I almost call out,
almost tell them to be careful and watch their footing,
but the words won’t come.
They already know what I would say.
They turn, suddenly,
eyes full of something like recognition,
and run to me –
my old and new names blended as they call out.

When their arms wrap around me,
it hits –
the bridge, the bay, the afternoon
folding into itself –
and I am holding the child I was,
neither of us letting go
until the cat on my chest moves and I wake.