By home, by the sea.

I was once propped up against a wall,
watching the wind rough up the sea.
Quietly puffing at a cigarette,
contemplating gulls circling downward.

Old man approaches, wind battered drunk;
flatcap askew and squinted glare.
Red faced, a coastal living story:
days of work, whisky and violence.

Sandpaper hands rub together, he
removes his cap, crunches between
hands; when he speaks, voice of a thousand
cigarettes and yells from football stands.

Offers a greeting, "Hello son, fit
is it yer dein oot ere, on
a day like 'is?"  A harsh whisper soft
behind roaring skies, gunkit mettle.

I tell him; "Simply I'm passing time,
watching sky and sea in skermish,
patiently waiting for some
resolution to come between them."

He laughs: a hearty sound full of joy,
unexpected beside grimaced
facade.  He sees the shock I hide.
Try to hide.  He sits against grout and stone.

Together we watch outward for a
time, held in quiet reflection;
angry sea tumoulous, throws his weight
around, spoilt child temper tantrum.

Boats and birds scurry round him, attempt
to calm him, they look to me like
toys and rubber ducks splashed round
merrily Baby Jesus' bathtub.

A timeless moment between us both,
inside a still split second, shared
by between tick and tock, where unmade
thoughts fade and newborn choices replace.

Broken by a thing so soft as the
blink of an eye, frozen intro-
spection to fraught extrovertion,
and the strangers beside one another.

Cigarette passed, hands sheltered flame
and the clouds of our smoke sail up.
Slowly, then faster, caught up by the
rush of the howl, torn inwards and apart.

Two silhouettes in the fading glow,
the watching parent has changed;
Never another word spoken til the
last puff of smoke; simple nods exchanged.

And off he wanders down the path, with
warm glow of the booze and the salt
of the air inside him, and outside
I stand, gaze fixed firmly on the shore.