Cockleshells.

A burnt white sun,
two piles of cockleshells,
your hand in mine.
The crunch and burst
of shells under feet
under the wheeling gulls.
Gloves,
two pairs,
The sting of cold
making beetroots of our cheeks,
our glossy eyes watering.
Mirror mudflats,
like pools of silver cloth
and a gurgling tide,
seeping in.
We made faces
at the thought of cockles
and began the long walk home.