I am alone
on a thin beach
at Christmas.
The mood is summer,
the shallows
the temperature of blood.
Bodies glisten at distances,
me on a strip of sand
watching flesh tan
on alternate strips.
Tourists struggle
over the rocky coast –
they dip and jerk
like marionettes
in a school play.
The sea smells
of weeds and salt.
Coconut trees
bend for the sun.
The sand moves as I move,
shifts to accommodate.
I feel beached,
marooned in mid-life
with Coppertone bottle,
wet trunks and cotton towel.
Breakers pound
the wall at Black Point.
Mansions are jaded
by repeat performances.
The lava glitters with rooms.
