Early autumn morning, the sun’s warmth’s strong
on the sands, a parasol’s on the ground -
keeled over months ago, its thatch partly torn;
it toppled quietly without any surround sound
and there was no-one to hear it, record
how and when a patch of thatch had come down
its shade rolled small. The off season resort
abandoned like a dried up fountain, rimmed
with watermarks. The ocean whispers on.
There is one other tourist - the crowds thin
end of summer, the swimmers crush gone
back to city squares, graffiti, imagined
and real grievances, unemployment, phoneapps, power cuts, lives of grim, urban grins.