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MARGARET BRADSTOCK
Morning, Clovelly Beach
- Lap after lap, time descending
- into
the sea’s chamber,
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the cryptogam-covered steps.
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- On the white concrete plateau,
sunbathers
-
are already stretched out
- like slabs of meat for the
barbie,
- basting and turning themselves,
-
skin like crumpled leather.
- That hole in the ozone layer
- won’t spoil their
day.
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- Tourists are sculling, sculling
-
against a gun-metal sea
- out beyond Caddy’s Steps,
- listening for the shark plane
- or snorkelling in search of
-
the Big Blue Groper,
- cries of discovery mimicking
-
- another babel tower.
- Someone throws chips
- into the bin, and seagulls
-
go into attack mode
- in a scene from The Birds.
- Somewhere an airborne
- beach-umbrella takes off
-
- like cosmic dust, spiralling
-
into the blue nowhere.
- Keep your eye on that spike.
-
- You’ve come at the right
time, he says,
- tide going out, no bluebottles,
-
a beautiful temperature.
- Except for the sea-lice, that
is,
- homing in like kamikaze pilots,
- mistaking your floating body
- for seaweed, or a marine
smorgasbord.
-
- Don’t worry,
- you won’t feel a thing
-
until later.
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