AQUAMARINE
the skin of apricots
float in these pools of summer.
afternoon warmth filters the bay.
routine bodies sigh
in an idyll of smoothed senses fed aquamarine.
weightlifters lift the white beach
and svelte bright nippled women lie back,
orgasmic brown-gold,
entering their inner temples
of the gull-tongued shimmers of bliss.
the children are either
bones or complete
and splash in the blue tide
like sticks, or like pink jelly.
he lies back thinking of sex with a woman
who is the colour of sand and biscuit and silk.
he glances across the white beach
for some sexed creature
he can no longer invent
nor less require
in the brass glare of summer's nakedness.
the answer of the sea
is the slapping of water on wood
and this could last forever
could could
in the shallows of the play
the way love could
could could
the hollow boats rock and talk in the bay.
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