an open field

the first ice-cream, because he's a guest, the 4-year-old tells me

remembering who we are as the sun goes down we swap stories around the table

unexpected gifts the paddling pool deeper after the storm

all day rain the edges of the playing cards start to curl

evening swim the sea saltier in the losing light

a moment alone I read my book in the paddling pool

Sunday morning: a queue at the bakery then sandcastles and tiny silver fish darting in the shallows. Some days open to us effortlessly.

the distance between us I watch my step-daughter's plane start to descend

rotisserie chicken I walk back towards the scent

beach beggar her little girl trickles sand between her fingers

the tiny waists of girls in bikinis the boys dive into the waves

thunder clap I think about the promises he won't keep

time to go home a little boy fills up his Crocs with sand

the wind picks up beneath dark clouds the sea takes on the colour of petrol and now the rain each day this week summer has turned against itself, as if it has forgotten its own name

the sea as clear as light this morning a little girl stands under the beach shower and opens her mouth a rose tattoo above a woman's right buttock I step around the pebbles on the sea-bed

the sound of children playing in the garden and the house sings

Bastille Day a boy on the beach tramples his sandcastle

a young girl turns cartwheels in the shallows the waves break short like a splash of applause

sunset the fisherman's silhouette edged with light

these gorgeous girls in their Italian sunglasses and sparkly flip-flops who move like water I want to press a fingertip to their golden skin just to watch it spring back into place

holiday season an english tourist reads a tin of Cassoulet au Magret de Canard twice

in the queue at the bakery the scent of Ambre Solaire

all day now the chitter of cicadas all night the whirr of the ceiling fan last night I dreamed of a dark restaurant an unpaid bill I walked away from

My father once gave my mother a driving lesson on the beach carpark while the three of us were in the back of the car. She remembers us shouting, 'No Daddy, please don't let Mammy drive.' She never learned. 45 years later my niece sends me a photo of her on a mobility scooter for the first time, negotiating Debenhams and M&S, her handbag in the front basket, her walking stick slotted behind the seat. 'Go, Mam,' I am shouting from 1,000 miles away.

Almost nine in the evening and the beach is full of picnics: two kids and their parents eating sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil, an extended family on deckchairs around a line wobbly tables pushed together and leaning into the sand from the weight of tupperware dishes and bottles of wine, some volleyballers on towels with cigarettes and bread. Sand, sunset, the voices of people who know you. The day's end like a pillow.

summer rainstorm the balloon man sells umbrellas

croissant crumbs I try and find the right words

there can never be too much light

Much less than a nest, these few snatches of twig and grass, yet the pigeon settles and resettles herself on the high ledge under the arcade, a ledge so narrow she has to sit with her tail feathers flattened to the wall behind her. And when her mate arrives and perches on the tiniest lip of stone before resting his head across the back of her neck, so for a moment I can't see where his grey feathers end and hers begin, I am reminded of love, love that shows itself in kindness, and I am pleased to be, even if it is an invention of my own making.

the sun's heat in a ripe plum cicadas cicadas