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And the Fat One Gripping
a Bottle of Wine
Blazing November. The wrongness of this weather's what
Makes my being here for anything all wrong, the sea
Having gone slack and pale and bland and summery,
The air since the fi rst light this morning dry and hot
And motionless. Broad day's brought everybody out.
There goes a runner threading through a family
Straggling along in street-clothes. Surfers unseeingly
Step around three elderly ladies. All tramp my holy spot.
I run on sand where multitudes lay and strolled and sat.
It's scuff ed and stale. And heading through the overused scene,
Around the last point I see alone out on the fl at,
Where the sand's newly wet, one fat girl and one lean
Briefl y link arms and dance, whirling this way and that
Over their clear, prancing refl ections in the sheen.