The Beach at Midday

The Beach at Midday

… and the seas
No longer wash these sands.

Stay;
Your hair
Reflects burning sun
Your white
Shirt clings to your
Sweating body,
Clings to your breasts.

Stay;
Your softness
Is a counterpoint
To the starkness
Of the autumn-naked trees
Whose sharp, tangled branches
Scratch at the hot sky.

Stay;
Your naked
Toes flex in the yellow sand,
Dig into the hot, yellow sand,
As you sit, languid, hot,
On the yellow sand.

This is a silent beach.
I wipe sweat from my face.
You pull off your sweat
And sand-stained shirt
Revealing breasts too perfect
For these sun-blinded eyes,
Then lay back, in cut-off jeans,
That are tight, shrunk by sea-water,
Against your sun-browned body.

I ask myself:
What matters?

This is a silent beach.

Something matters;
Though the sun is too hot,
And we, though together,
Are still both alone,
And no waves crash on the shore,
Something matters.

Dead leaves dance by
On a light breeze
That smells (faintly) of salt.

You lie there perfectly still:
Tell me what matters.

You lie there, perfectly tanned:
Tell me something still matters.

There is something.
Something brooding, something dark.
Something dark, and empty.

Stay with me,
Though autumn is in mid-spring.

What is it that matters?

“Hey! What matters?”

A gull sings lonely
Over the still brooding sea.

No waves crash on the beach.
No waves grind the sand.
No waves die on the shingle.

The words form themselves again.

Silence.

Your breasts are still.
I reach across and lift an eyelid,
Expose your blue eyes to the blue sky
And the hot white sun.
Your irises are a beautiful blue
Reflecting a sky that we once knew.
But the pupils do not constrict.

I shout to nothing:
“What matters?”
Nothing answers.

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