Orange sarong on the beach, tip-toeing on the hot stones, a cup of seawater in his hands,
laughing, keeping it steady, taking it to someone only he can see. I’ve passed him now and
up ahead two people in white – white hair, white hats, white shirts – tipping from the hip
as the old do, kept from falling by a small child. They stop and watch, they take his hand,
they go forward on deliberate feet, love spilling from a china cup. Between the orange
sarong and the folk in white, I walk as you’d expect: one foot in front of the other, dressed
in the colour of stones, my devastation an empty spoon.
The other Tuesday Poem: Missed