The Sunday beach is busy, groups of families
Under multicoloured parasols I’m conscious
Of being watched, take my glasses off,
Not seeing their eyes clearly I feel more at ease.
Walk to where the sand ends and the beach
Is pebbly, not many people there; a quick dip,
The water is cold, put my glasses back on
Sit on my towel and since it’s near an airport
Watch planes take off and land.
Five minutes on and I’m restless,
walk back to the promenade
To get a coffee at a small café I often visit,
It hasn’t got loud music.
The lady who runs it
Is a nice looking woman in her late forties,
For no reason at all
She tells me that her father died last year,
I commiserate, and she talks a bit more than
Goes to serve some others.
Watch her leave a nice bum under tight jeans,
Unlike other, have-been-beautiful-women,
She hasn’t got a sullen face, but an open smile
And lovely, honest eyes.
Coffee is long since drunk
I’m fidgety and think of going home,
Only at home my wife sits, in semi darkness, watching T.V.
Once upon a time she was a beautiful woman too,
Now she no longer goes to the beach.