Instead of telling you how much I miss you,

I send a small, funny magnet with a crab and a bucket,

a bouncy ball, sun warm stones from an empty beach,

sand sticky fingers from a soft, ripe peach and the glass clear water to clean them.

I send you a fat, heavy parcel of fish and chips, steaming in damp paper,

buttery flakes in crispy batter and just the right amount of salt and sauce.

I hand wrap the bath warm evening, write something short on a postcard

with pastel houses, and cut grey cliffs, and a first-class stamp.

For a moment, I’m torn between a wood carved seagull with your name on it

and the whole ocean, so I get you both. The blinding glint of sun on its surface,

the tight squinting smile of your eyes when you look right at it.

It’s not on display, but I ask, and they have it – that secret sound the stones make underwater;

a solid bubble of your breath, so you can watch it rise up to the blue sky and break;

the best jellyfish, so small and domed and perfect that when you open it you’ll say,

It’s so pretty, it belongs in a bakery, and I’ll laugh and say, I know just what you mean.