Sunday Afternoon by the Sea in Argèles

For M (1948-2012)

Sitting on her wingchair

between the laurel rose bush

and the pompoms of pampas grass,

facing the bay between her and home,

what’s behind her dark glasses is reflected

in the passing fair, the carnival of a Sunday.

The power walkers, with their eyes deadset

by the imperatives of the promenade,

work up an appetite, while flaneurs

look ahead, dreaming of the salmon mousse

they have eaten. The men wear white suits,

the women flowery frocks. All wear straw hats.

The family caravans roll on regardless, afuss

with their dogs and baby-carts, followed by

wheelchairs, scooters, skateboards, tandems

for laughing geriatrics fronted by sporting types.

The world is going everywhere and nowhere

And nobody will ever come back the same way.

As the afternoon advances those left behind appear,

shyly watching each other as though the right to be

here is a privilege that is going to be withdrawn

any minute. But, reassured by smiles and bon jours,

these stragglers, step by step, gain the confidence

to stop and sit on a bench looking at the sea.

She, who has been observing

this passing fair of humankind

without being observed, sitting

between the laurel rose bush

and the pompoms of pampas grass,

spreads her wingchair and flies home.