Here is a poem that's developed into a memory of Lossiemouth, where I lived as a young teenager.
Saturday April 12th
Clouds like black marshmallows swam above the sea (God’s a confectioner, always jam tomorrow.) We searched the shore for sweetness and set our nets to nab the scuttling crabs. We left no stone unturned. “God’s not sweet, there is no jam” I said “A sair fecht” was your reply. On the wind a scent of open wounds the sea bloomed with violets and verdigis and in the porcelain of shallow caves waves sang sad arias. We tasted iodine and sea-pinks.
Come back my childhood, come back my first love. Remind me how I tasted sweetness when we wandered that northern shore and talked of God and jam tomorrow.