Clouds droop,
intermittent drops of sunlight
fall, but the British on holiday park
their cars along the road
above Sandsend beach
and sit.
Some nap, smoke, read The Times
or a book. Some pour hot tea
and chew the remnants
of their crust.
Some venture out
and down
to the beach, and
linger until damp
gusts blowing off the North Sea,
like roughened hands that know
a body's limitations, thrust
them back.
They retreat
but they do not leave.
Others remain in their cars all day.
Not one of them here to fish,
yet haven't they cast out a line,
reeled in a small,
colorless one,
refused to throw it back or let it die?
In any other land,
they might starve.
|