The sharks bask. The dolphins lope. The cars park.
Across the bay.
What a
beautiful thing is a sunny day!
The air
is serene after a storm,
The air
is so fresh that it already feels like a celebration.
What a
beautiful thing is a sunny day!
The
sea is cerulean and violet. There are bands of tungsten, pewter and
aquamarine. When the sharks turn, their fins flash mercury.
The
cars range aggressively, penned in rows, angled awry, bullying each
other for space. They are ranks of redundant solar cells, absorbing
rays uselessly. They dream of sun-stroke.
Abroad
the bay, dolphins breast the still surface. News of the sighting
spreads. People gather, point and wonder. A woman says “I walk this
beach everyday of my life.” Her scrawny dog bows his head in mute
assent.
Boats
manoeuvre in the vicinity of the sharks. Still their fins flash
mercury. The dolphins move off, making for the open sea, rounding the
headland, looming purple, flanked with green, above them.
The
waves curl quietly into surf and toddle up the beach. Toddlers shriek
and toddle after them. Teenagers try their body-boards but the tide
is serene. They stand about in the dripping black of their wetsuits,
sleek as seals, pert as mermaids. They point at the sharks and cast
their eyes in the wake of the dolphins.
Zephyrs
of barbecued meat rise from rocky coves. An extended family extends
across the sand, the matriarch in a deck-chair at the centre, a
tartan rug across her lap, a floral hat so floppy on her head,
seagulls squawk and veer away.
The
blue flag rests limply against the white flag post. The ice-cream van
tootles 'o sole mio' and sells 99s as luscious as nectar. The
ice-cream glides down the cones. The tongues lick and relish.
Two
boisterous bull terriers bounce on their leads, wrenching their
captors forward. A shaggy hound, loose and on the run, snuffles
through the marram grass, convinced of hidden treasure. Two Yorkshire
terriers yap animosities at each other, under the deadpan gazes of
their owners who seem to mouth "it's not my fella's fault.”
Snails
– so spiralled, so coloured – ease up and down fronds and blades,
feeling the sun roast the innards under their shells. Already the
underpants that will be forgotten is nestling in a cleft in the rocks
now festooned with towels, shopping bags, t-shirts, swimsuits and a
raincoat that sweats to realise it is not needed today. Nearby two
socks – baby-small, squirm-folded – seethe in the sunlight. The child will go home unshod and the call "where's
the wean's socks?" will sound briefly.
A
man and a woman walk the beach. She links her arm to his and lies in
close. He offers support. In her other hand, she bears a stick, more
pointer than prop. They reach an open stretch of damp, ochre sand, a
canvas the sea has readied for them. The woman writes, in bold
capitals, the name of her home place, 'FEAR MANACH', as resolutely as
an imperialist plants a flag on a planet.
Gannets
dive, Exocet-sharp, into the blue, stunning sprats too near the
surface.
The cars park, angry in the sun.
Che
bella cosa è na jurnata ’e sole,
n’aria
serena dopo na tempesta!
Pe’
ll’aria fresca para già na festa...
Che
bella cosa na jurnata ’e sole.
O
Sole Mio:
song; Giovanni Capurro and Eduardo di Capua; Naples; 1898
www.facebook.com/DaveDugganWriter
Beautiful post Dave ... your words are so eloquent, you can imagine being there, only wish I was!
ReplyDeleteThanks Catherine. I hope you manage to catch some rays.
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