At the Corniche

They are far out, walking the promenade;

and returning flamingos group in the bay -

the pulsing reflections of pink and grey

are an echo from sunsets past, the mud

exposed at low tide, shimmery with facades

of buildings and a too early neon ad.

A woman runs, the winds billows her robes,

tugs her scarf askew, the last sunlight probes

contours of waves and time, breathes and shreds

itself on lampposts, glow-in-the-dark keypads,

headlights, taillights, sodium yellow and red.

There are small spaces carved for fluorescent

twilight shades, the impossibly transient.

The father and son, small figures are dotted

on the grey paved concrete thread far ahead.

Content isn’t concrete, corniches, rooms;

it’s just a minute to feel the continuum.




Still trying to pin down definitions of happy and happiness. I know it when I see it - unmistakeable. Have a happy week ahead.