A certain elegance, came with
with his ease of movement,
arching to the ground, deliberate,
yet fluid, he was like Quicksilver,
deftly offering the pebble picked
to the sea, like boys do.

His attire fired small intrigue within me,
his manner more, enough to persuade
myself to blink him into relief against
the curl of breaker-fall, past the cusp,
to crash and sprawl.

What little sound our presence made,
was taken by gust of Gale and fanned
to flight and thence to lay upon sand.

leaving a living mime, staccato-fused in time,
by camera blink, each moment caught a hand
waving through the absence we shared, where
only the sea was at play, all rough and tumble,
waves and spray,

there was an air about him, his 
appearance, movement, something 
I could not discern, yet for this stranger 
my fist balled, and to a God I called 
let him not meet the Fisherman today;
fearing he’d had enough, could no 
longer fill his future with wants, and 
was simply waiting for his needs 
to become irrelevant.

I noticed her, as greyscale cut to black & white,
to dichotomy, yet there’s often bleed and blur
in the detail of absolutes

he sauntered, Bowler & Brolly, 
along the concrete Jetty, shoes sodden, 
from errant wave and eccentricity, 
aware of her stare, as she appeared 
to move with him but not, it could've been
a duel, or a dance or a ritual dance, but for the ash.

A Man on a Beach