On a Beach Far from Home

(Not previously published)

 

Where ripples send a dancing light

to sand-soft sea-bed while I swim;

where mild sea-breezes play on sleeve-free arms

deep into jasmine-scented dusks;

and where traditionists throw stones at youth

for dancing on the shelves

of a Roman amphitheater;

yes, there, far from safe and chilly England,

a youthful charmer once contrived

to befriend me.

 

He loved to finger-spin a beach ball,

or zing a goal at Bar-B-Foot –

two steps ahead of any challenger –

and to laugh because it was so easy.

 

Did he say to me, about a woman –

as night closed in, one dreamy evening

while we sat together in the sand –

“Je l’ai violé”?

 

Was I lucky that my French

was not so good?  

Some small violence, I told myself –

and when they met again, he said, “Elle a rit.”

 

He told me this, in part, as to a friend –

we still were young and did not know

that people laugh

in the face of calamity;

then he sat, with mouth half-open and eyes –

thinking eyes, learning eyes, (watching eyes?) –

echoing his incredulity.

 

It seemed that his expression sprang

from those same roots whence leapt his joy

that he could master spinning balls

and opposition, with his hands

as no-one else could do.

 

Did he intend to play a little cat-and-mouse with me,

enjoy the game, and laugh at winning –

believing that a woman is no different from a ball?

Or that the game is fair?

 

“J’ai voulu profiter de toi,

mais je t’ai trouvé comme ça,

et j’ai pas pu.”

                                     Anne Emerson