On this
leeward beach
serrated
coast
we’ve been cast
ashore.
‘Enjoy the
last of summer,’
they said,
as they sailed for home.
Old people –
crinkled
smiles,
chatter of
the deaf,
500 hens in
a cage,
the
occasional strutting male,
rooster of
the brood.
‘Tomorrow night’s the raffle,’
one grandma
croaks,
shrugging
off impending death
raising
trivial sums
for wives of
drought-wracked farmers
in the
hinterland.
‘Do you make
or write or paint?’ I ask.
‘No. We’re resting,’ I am told.
Does anyone
escape?
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