Small pieces of England

As I sit restlessly in the high grip of my desk chair,
I am assaulted by the sudden re-emergence of a vivid childhood memory.
Unannounced, it forces itself upon me,
And I sit helplessly, absorbed in the bright backwash of my life.

I find my mind scattered across a short stretch of Hunstanton.
Here, the rainclouds constantly haunt the beach,
And the cries of children and the smell of rotting seafowl,
That pollute the salty air,
Make no disturbance of my search for small pieces of England.

My classmates have all been lured into the wide throat of the ocean,
Or are drowning in naïve wonder as they claw at the shelves of souvenir shops.
But the sea will throw them back cold and the lollipops and postcards will lose all novelty.
And the day will offer no memories to their older selves.

Alone, I stay here on this sharp, wet finger of sand,
Picking up perfectly shaped pebbles, small pieces of England.

Some are too small, some are too big,
Some look more like pieces of France.
These I deliver back to the sea trusting that she will know what to do with them,
But by the time the daylight has exhaled its last damp, orange breath over the low, Norfolk sky,
I have found my perfect few pieces of England.

I hold the pebbles in my hands, thinking of how, one day,
I shall have just enough small, perfect pieces to make a whole England.