Peter Chapman Poetry

On the Beach

The sound in the palms a rispy sawing, down to the towel goes the lowering

warm and sifty then the voices:

the French pronouncing bloody marys, the grup-voxed Germans saying vodka,
the girls from the schools faintly, the lotion over their backs, the straps a little.

The sound of underwater, shells lightly bumping the shadows of clouds.
The sound of people in the sunshine, the dart of blue in yellow.

You swim off Gibraltar, the ferry's great blade parting the sea to Morocco,
its incense in the nose, a little.