THE BEACH:

BOWED DOWN TREE:

Bowed down by gales bemoaning,

Twisted, gnarled, older than me,

Leaves pelted cruel by hail & rain,

Bent double, floor sweeping, groaning,

Nobody but me sees “just an old tree”,

But I hear in your ancient sighs, your pain.

As a sapling eons ago, straight, supple & green,

They dug deep & put your roots down, deep down,

Sentencing you to a life not right for you,

In a place where gales & storms were always seen,

Not thinking that you may wither & brown,

I sympathise, my roots were planted by others too.

The sun laughed down upon the crunchy, oily, summer beach,

The white man turned crisp with salt, cream, & dirty dreams,

The black man wept ebony tears behind tinted orange shades,

Sadly wondering at the futility of the word “tan”,

Whilst the lost child chased her dim shadow round & round in the sick sand.

The mocking wind played upon her transparent carnival flute,

And the cockled hippie touched his burnt sitar, trying to be happy.

The mint-iced clouds dropped down into crispy sugared cones,

 The ice-cream melted down Gertrude´s fat floral belly, & she trembled.

The putrid murky waves kissed dirty feet & spat, while toes cringed.

The poodle wore sunglasses, the donkey a hat, & I cried grains of wet sand.

The seagulls flew inland indicating rain, & the moon grimaced knowing the truth.

How far away, the little toy boats floating whitely in my solitary mind.

The   kite takes my existence to heaven, & loses it on the way.

The iced drink sobbing & melting in my hand, longs for a cool swim.

The sandcastle protects the scabby crab who´s mad, & afraid of being a crab.

Mr. Smith is fat & white, while Mrs. is made of red crinkled bone,

Their costumes matching their silence in drab baggy beige, how happy they are.

How the kids squeal in protest at the Summer, isn’t it hot? Isn’t it sad?

Suntan lotion runs between thighs & slips under bikinis,

So do hands, so do eyes, so does the beach.

Beach by morning, beach by day, & best of all, beach by welcoming night.

They´ve all gone home in their hot stuffy cars, to their oily, sticky, gritty homes,

To their salty fishy suppers & their sunburned, bucket & spade dreams.

Now the sea, the shell, the gull & the wind can embrace their friend,

They will enfold the beach in their love as she weeps & wails,

She feels she has been raped, poor girl, especially at her age.

Be kind to her until she can go on her vacation this Winter.