Dawn spreads warm fingers over granite
long since ground down, pink in morning light.
By the time we arrive the gilded peaks
of Shepherd’s hill are mirrored in the loch.
You and Tara dig, bent double, intently,
like Klondike miners searching for gold
or some small treasure, coloured glass, a feather
to be taken home and shown off proudly.
Chubby sand- covered knees are washed
by lapping waters, we drowse in the midday heat.
Sunlight working off sand, glinting off spade,
while soft fleet clouds pass stately overhead.
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