[montsnmags]

"I cannot draw it, though I tried -
cross-hatches and lines and smudges and hard-scrawled score,
looking no more than what they are -
but the mirror-green of the broken surf
behind the near-black of the bodies climbing
in and out of a shorebreak
providing a sound track of bright white noise

is what I’m writing about instead
through a squint of sun-on-paper.

The horizon draws a line above the sand,
daring the sky and ocean to cross.

Arbitrary divisions, lethargically
breaking my Sunday afternoon
into beach time,
and now afternoon tea:

scrambled eggs and smoked fish
on toasted homemade bread,
with Worcestershire sauce,
Tabasco, and
soaked capers.
Apt, perhaps."