17 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 first 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 scuffed and stale. And heading through the overused scene, Around the last point I see alone out on the flat, Where the sand’s newly wet, one fat girl and one lean Briefly link arms and dance, whirling this way and that Over their clear, prancing reflections in the sheen. 35