On Sundays we sing.
Ghost birds. You lead us
to the southern cliffs
with our Girl Guide tents.
The sun is ours.
We have verses to prove it,
tucked in the hems of our
midwinter pockets.
We are snow globes.
Along the rows of
whitewashed caravans
young boys peer
out and whistle if
their mums aren’t home.
Everything is seen through
murky glass. The sea lurches.
Someone should save
the soul of her. Lukewarm
and watered down,
holding all the girls
in bathing suits.
We stretch out our
carol sheets
and hum like bees.