The beach sloped up to a harbour. A girl held a towel over a palm tree, gripping the wrist-let for balance.
Why climb up? she said.
The sea widened out, five hundred yards at least, silvered sheets, colder here, a bay with a tide ebb.
A harbour of crabsteaks bulked dark, frozen corpses. She shook her towel, a wave lifted her breasts, the air was sour with her floral perfume. Jugglers’ parakeets made their fruity larking noises.
Jesus: their wings sound like voices. The red post of an outpost shone like a second moon.
By the harbour, at the point where land touched sea, a wrecked car, roof smashed down.
It had not sunk, but hung almost horizontal. Some air car, but no sign of the driver. An arm splashed up, spidery from lobster bites. Scuba gear: if only they had a boat. The girl was running to the wreck.
It looked as if it had taken out the sea wall, fifty yards inland. The cliff kept the sea at bay.
A man was leaping across the wrecked car.
A child followed. What was he doing?
:: 03.07.2022 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 