A brother and sister
nine and five
a weekend or a holiday
they’re on a beach
he’s lanky
in trunks of nearly
no colour
she’s blonde
and more effervescent
they can’t swim
so they play in the certainty
of the shallows
laughing uncontrollably
at their repeated failure to retrieve
their inflatable ring
that the wind is blowing
towards the estuary
flip-flopping from their outstretched little hands
they’re focussed on that inexpensive circle
absorbed in their simple game
by being alive
and being allowed to be alive
in the outdoor world
their father appears suddenly
breathlessly
something of Sean Connery about him
but not thinking of entertainment
their mirth turning to foreboding and guilt
as they are told that they are
on the verge
of stepping into the drop
from the sea shore
into the deep swallowing mouth
of the river
the same waterway on whose banks
they were born
they watch the ring dance upstream
and out of their lives
as they begin to trudge behind the adult
to the safety
of the striped windbreak encampment
in the dunes
and the unshakeable embrace
of a family that mourns
each loss of possession
however paltry
however badly made
in their non-throwaway existence
the boy later hears tales of children
who had drowned near that spot
and that when the sea had finally
returned their defeated bodies
it was found that crabs had eaten away
their eyes
he grows taller and realises
how useful cunning is
however he does not learn to swim
and at times is ambivalent about
the possibility of submerging
nowadays
during Happy Hour
he haunts the edges
of the bars of the swimming pools
of Mediterranean hotels
in the presence of the jelly bellies
tattooed backs
and canine voices
of those of his countrymen
who express a hatred
for everything
that lies beyond
their island
he still keeps a distance
maintaining a hard border
impervious to the ocean
that surrounds him
and that waits for him
patiently and timelessly
updated by @paul-steffan-jones2: 11/24/19 06:16:51PM
