Tracing Time

Yesterday was all scudding clouds and brilliant light on this quiet beach. Seagulls, nothing but ragged shapes in a windblown sky.
I found the photograph lodged under a stone. Dog-eared, worn and stained, intimate. Abandoned? Looking at that little picture trembling in the wind, I heard you.

Lying on our backs tracing faces in the clouds. Faces I don’t see until you show me. ‘Got one. Look an old man, like a wrinkled prune. That’s you one day.’
You snigger, shift, complain about sand getting everywhere. You say, ‘Lets walk, should we? Let’s take our picture, ok?’
Placing the camera on a rock, you tell me where to stand. Maybe I’m reluctant, I don’t know, can’t remember, but I can still see the look on your face, hear you say, ‘This is such a lovely thing to do.’
‘Ok, ok. It’s fine. Sorry.’
You set the timer, and run towards me yelling, ‘Catch a smile in the frame, and we must be together forever.’ The shutter fires before you reach me.
‘Do it again.’
‘Why?’
‘Cos.’
‘Suppose.’
‘Silly, to remind us, to remember.’
‘Ok. Fine, one more time.’
‘I love you. But sometimes-’
‘Look. Here. Something for you. This can be a memory, can’t it?’ Handing you a shell. Your smile moments before you kiss me. And just as the shutter fires for the second time you run towards me. I turn, loose my balance and we collapse, giggling. I see me slumped in a heap, my face towards you. You laughing. And something else echoed in the grain of that photograph. Your smile, so beautiful, is still with me. And you?

I replaced the picture, wondering if it was a deliberate gesture, that it should be left to the wind and the waves, and maybe that’s already happened, it’s gone.
Today the weather’s turned, inky clouds, squally rain, a turbulent sea pounding the shore, wind blown foam scattering across the shingle. It’s difficult to imagine how something so fragile could survive.

Al Fresco

You talk about these things that you see, collect, record; you share these stories with me.
Yes. Listen, let me tell you about today.

He eats rapidly, efficiently; scraps of fish, batter, the remnants of chips. Drawing a finger round the tray, salt and grease are consumed, the tray licked clean.
‘Delicious, lovely. Just what I needed. People. Wasteful, still, good for me.’ At the edge of the shelter we watch two pigeons pecking at a discarded carton. ‘You’ve got to be quick, though.’
His odours are pungent, complex, still I sit for a while, talking. Nothing major, just nattering, commenting on people passing, that sort of thing. ‘Best be getting on, just the right kind of day for foraging.’ I wish him success. He nods, ‘Thank you. And for talking. It’s not often I get the chance. No, not very often.’

Along the promenade I pass an elderly woman and a child playing games with the afternoon sun, the woman’s outstretched hand casting shadows on the pavement. She wiggles the fingers of one hand, pointing with the other, looking at the child all the while. The little girl stretches out her hands trying to touch the shifting shadow. Giggles, looks at the elderly woman, waves at the shadow instead.
A couple sit in a nearby shelter. She drinks from a bottle; a can nestles in his hands. They sit together silent, seperate, maybe staring at the beach, the sea.

A little further on I pass a father and son, the father holding a tray of chips they both eat from. A gull perches on the railings. The boy becomes animated, pointing towards the beach. Distracted from eating, the father responds. A flurry of wings, chips are taken. The father manages to hold onto the tray but some chips are spilled. Seagulls descend, father and son step back, people passing stop and stare.

So, I continue walking, as I usually do, until I think that maybe I’ve gone far enough, decide to turn back, and that’s when I pass him again. By his side he’s placed: a carton of chips, the remnants of a burger, two cans. He eats from another polystyrene tray. Smiles when I pass, holding out the tray. I say, ‘No thanks, it’s ok. I think you could do with them more than me.’ He nods, nothing more than a slight movement of his head, returns to the carton, to eating.
The air is cooling, clouds building, the promenade quietening, but he has his own seat, his own shelter; isolated, alone. Not with the other ones, those that cluster and collect waiting for the van to arrive, for sandwiches and a hot drink.
He shuns their company, prefers to sit alone watching the sun go down

It was such a beautiful evening, glorious light. Seemed a shame to leave the promenade. I wanted to stay, linger, but you know.

We sit silent for a while, me lost in my own thoughts that I know you will interrupt.
‘Ah well, always tomorrow, eh? Always another day.’