Frieda Hughes: Here Comes The Sun

Predictions of good weather seep beneath our skin like melanin; I heard a rumour of weekend October sun and so tore through necessary tasks In minutes, not hours, wheeled out my motorbike and inflated the tyres. The distance between me And the clutter of obligations that littered my house set me free: Over coffee and this poem at a cafe table on the Aberystwyth seafront I watched motorbikers gather for chips and a view of the water, and waited For the ice cream queue to become less than ten. But it was never ending, Constantly refreshed by middle-aged women walking small dogs on leads, Mothers with pushchairs, and grey-haired men bulging out of their unzipped leathers. A teenage girl picked large pebbles from the grit beach, one at a time, Returning to build up her pebble fortress again and again, like a dog able to carry Only one object.