All we can hear is the heat.
It buzzes past in insect clouds.
It drops to our ears in the beat
of impossibly heavy pelican-wings,
and scratchily pulses
from the dwindle-bodied sand-critters
of this equatorial beach.
Shimmering,
the sound shrouds this sun-bleached sheet
of tropical sand,
where you stand,
with your toes in the tickling fingers
of surf’s frothy hand.
Left and right on the strand,
in the sea, on the land,
not a soul breaks the haze.
Sunlight strobes from the waves,
as you splashily pace –
under-glow on your face –
at peace, with yourself,
with this beautiful place.
I’m sitting, I’m distant,
I wait, I’m in shade,
blissfully watching your bare-footed wade
as we both fantasise
that we can live free,
where the sea
meets the sky
meets the coconut tree.
THIS WAS PROMPTED BY a trip to Fiji, where we stayed right on the beach in a wooden house on stilts. So, a strong Robinson-Crusoe long-haul Londoner goes travel-brochure-wild vibe. I expect it’s all high-tone blond-wood-walkways-and-black-granite-interiors “beach resort” houses now, but at the time it was pleasingly basic. Semi-wild dogs being needy but very polite about it, and the most wonderful empty beach-front. I’m the kind of holiday beach-goer who sits in the shade and watches the world go by. I don’t mind the heat, but me and the sun, we don’t get along. So the memory of peacefully watching loved-ones in the hot-rays-from-space sunlight is what I wanted to record. I don’t think I can ever go back there; I doubt it still exists.
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THE SCENE: You return from the counter in our favourite café, place a latte on my table, maybe even cake. We do not talk – we may talk some other time – but nevertheless you’re so… gratified!… to have given me a small token of your warm regard 😍, encouraging me to keep writing. Plus, the glow of tribute! You are a Patron Of The Arts! You pick the amount, from the price of a coffee:
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Photo by Rachel Claire on Pexels.