Worm casts

She stood on tiptoe; her feet squidging into the wet sand. It was then that I heard the noise: I saw her mouth open, there across the rock pools and timeless grit, while the screech continued to echo off the cliff walls.

‘What’s the problem?’ I shouted as I started to run in that way that only mothers can. The seagull like sounds persisted. Arms pumped feet faster. Without breath I reached her.

‘What’s up?’

Now sobbing, she splurted her reply: ‘That.’

I looked where she pointed; the beach was hillocked with worm casts.

‘Them? They’re only sand. Come on, let’s go. Don’t be silly.’

‘No. Can’t. They might come out.’

She was petrified, superglued to the ground. I looked up, thinking, trying to resolve the issue.

‘Oh shit,’ the words hissed from my mouth. There two metres away, where there had been sand, was now water. The tide was coming in, fast.