'From whining wind and colder 

Grey sea I wrap him warm 

And touch his trembling fineboned shoulder 

And boyish arm.' 

—James Joyce, 'On the Beach at Fontana' 

When I walk the beach among the roiling waves 

I will think of you. 

When I stop at the low-tide pool

I will wish you near.

When you are near 

I will reach for your hand.

When you are too old for my hand

I will understand, and be content with your presence.

When the weight of my parenting is too much

I will close my eyes and think of waves.

When cold waves crash round my feet, when I feel the ocean pull,

I will resist, that I might return to you.

Long after the constellations have shifted their familiar pattern,

the atoms that were you and me will still be entwined. 

I will never let go.