he said he was waiting for death
eyes watchful over the sea
and on his knee - neatly wrapped -
a triangle wax-papered parcel
tied with string
winching at the badly kept beer
my eye is caught by a picture
of the house now hanging -
captured then - with a paddock
between it and the cliff
on the wall - more pictures -
nostalgic for a time - when people lived here
when the pub had trade in winter
and the school was more vibrant
than the tennis club
after lunch I take some time
to walk back to that bench again
- he's still there waiting - waiting -
for the slow erosion to take him
like the open slab of house exposed
The Blue Book
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