Crete, or Cyprus. Either way.

Crete. Or Cyprus.

My memory tells me slapping and deflation,
an octopus battling with air and sand
gathering in its dampness. These are sharp

reflections blinding from the sea. My memory
is afraid and hiding, with rocks in my knees;
being seen by the boy who shouts through

a language barrier with welts on his glistening arms.
You tell me things I don't remember yet, about
washing lines and drying squid. I remember

my first taste of the rubbery flesh and eight arms
flapping. It's all become a blur, I'm sure
he wasn't there when I went back to show you

just how close I'd come to the sliding octopus fury.
I'm sure you've coloured my own understanding
but the sun was definitely shining, then, drying us out.