From my window, I see him.
Squalls of wind wire his hair,
charcoal snaps and smudges
between his fingers.

The tide churns debris
to the sands.

He reaches for another piece,
measures
the rocks,
huddled together,
where tide meets shore
sky, the water.

The iron colossus of the pier
grinds in the gale,
gulls screech;
he paints their feathers,
soft, ethereal,
ghost-winged.

Paper buffets
in the breeze -
he nails it,
flapping onto board,
with pins.

His skin’s
ruddy.
He wrestles
with the canvas,
a boy bringing in his kite.
My words
paint his character
submerged
below the surface.


He’s at one with this
corner of the world.
Words roll
with the surf,
then crash
and burn.

Copyright Suzy Davies 2018. All Rights Reserved. No Copying.