Source: The New Yorker
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The last bottle of lemonade is nodding
in the rock pool, keeping cold. A childhood,
put away for later. I’m too busy to notice
the sun is going, that they’re packing up,
that it’s almost time for home. The low waves
warm round my knees as I dig in,
panning for light, happy to be here, dreaming
of the evening I’ll wake on the lilo
singing my head off, somewhere
in the sea-lanes to Stavanger, or Oslo.