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Reverie

A log

was jutting out of the sand. Whitened with many a rushing wave. It cast a small shadow in which two heads, close together were snuggled on a brightly striped bathing towel.

The one

to the right was oval and well shaped—perhaps the nose was a little too upturned but this did not detract from the smoothly tanned cheeks, thin black eyebrows, and a curly mass of black hair. And lips—ah those lips. Then there was a small black mole on the neck—from the neck—to the sunshine.

The head

to the left was oblong. Ears medium with one a little forward. Nose straight, narrow, sensitive—to a high forehead back to a mousy crop of sea-dishevelled hair. Cheeks brown but slightly skinned where a blunt razor had torn an uneven surface. And the chin and mouth strong and determined—determined.

Small words

came quickly—idled and fled. Silence—then privacy of thought—yet not a true privacy. For close proximity moulded entities that were similar. Of the sun burning—the cool of a stray cloud—and a slight sea breeze gently caressing.

The moods

of the sun—bright dazzle—hot—quietly warming—fitful, fleeting, could locked-heat. Could be a sun worshipper. The mystic, unreal God leads hallucinations. Whereas the life-giving rays are concrete—see them, feel them, and understand what they can do. A realistic deity with knowledgeable and tangible effects. This green shoot of young wheat, those trees with shady leaves, giving fruit—new life to sustain old life. Cannibalism—yet a comprehensible cannibalism, not vague and without body. Not a persecution and ignorance arising out of nothing. Heathen, perhaps, but a sensible heathenism, that does not lull one into dark insensibility.

Thoughts

in the mind—unspoken. Face right. Idling—dear Jamie—the thrill of a careless hand makes me want to stretch into the sun. Oh why are all those people along there. To be just us to—with the sun and the sand—naked. Towel uncomfortable—brush of skin—that thrill—that pang. How I love him—or is it that or is it the monotonous roar of the sea smoothing a false security. If—children birth and pain. Like a cigarette—I'll put one in your mouth. Wrong end—this is cork. Light. Sorry try this one. Someone swimming—nice bronze—do you know who it is? Probably one of the boys from the camp.

Face left.

I wonder—would—I wonder. Voice spoken—Yes. Ivan Berry—decent chap. First class cricketer, plays Senior A. Smooth to touch lips to kiss. Look at that could—looks like an elephant. The head—trunk and tail—legs. Bit skinny though. Sand in your eye? Let me fix it. There alright. Look at the beetle. Red back—black wings. He's crawled into a hole by that little bit of creeper. Wonderful how plant life clings tenaciously to its sustenance. Think that is one of man's weakness—his instability. In his restlessness he gathers the most pernicious habits and disregards the good strengths. Think I'll go to sleep—sleep.

Sun

was sinking—a long chill crept—shadow merged in shadow—day warmed bodies shivered and shifted—came closer for warmth and—new life.

—M.L.B.