We walked to the far end of the beach. Here, old ladies lay flat and untied their bras and big-bellied men walked about as if in search of some artefacts in the sand. Across the little bay was the forest and just below it the cemetery of dead trees standing grey and erect and silent. A dog barked nonsensical at the little waves, his mistress sitting there but allowing the din. The sand was the colour of weathered bone and some of the rocks provided a relief of beige and brown and even white but nothing else was white. Even the clouds appeared blemished by use or stained with blown dust. And there was heat-of-sun enough to allow for a momentary illusion of holiday. I felt it on my left and whenever I turned that way all I could see was its light glittering on the water and the low, stretched watercolour peninsula that appeared to bleed into the sea at points where all was monochrome. Half-way along its length, plumes of barrelly smoke rose first straight up and then to the right, becoming cloud-like and feeding a line of darkish cotton pushing it further along to the west. There were two others still visible on the strand where I sat. First, the woman lay on her back now, reading a book that hung suspended from her right hand. Though she had bony knees and slender calves her belly was swollen and could have been that of a man of her age partial to beer. It was disproportionate and dimpled over her ribs. She wore rolled-up blue jeans above the knee and a striped, multi-coloured bikini bra offensively bright and just about sufficient to house her large, flaccid breasts. Her hair, like her stomach,...

Deserted beach front clapboard housepaint peels Grey stones, white froth, seabirds Along the shore; Flotsam dreams of plastic bottle broken- Backed over fish head eyes astill; To see an emboldened sky cry Silver droplets clean the bottle once and for all.   A man with beard and cigarette looks on – Aghast. R.H....

Time the Healer goes forth With all aplomb; Exudes the shape of lion and tiger brawn. And jungle palm frond Whipped in windy blast; The pond fills up with muddy-watered brim. A shack to house the hunters ‘Neath a cliff And green-leafed brazen boys and men attend Who Ambite to dredge their souls. For all delude Their mothers yarn on days all gladly come....

Clearly our options are somewhat narrow; The living of our time and its shrouded jargon – A landscape’s load, burden of salt Preserves the poisoned Sweat of a nation. A glimmer of sanded gloaming; Wretched blurred figures approach With black hearts poised A finger hovers o’er the town beyond....