It’s here the haze
of the grey spindrift of this sirocco day.
Haze and roar spreading on the tarmac
even before the end of the avenue.
The sea in the heartbeat but not yet visible.
A huge breath of damp light into the pines,
the dishevelled branches like many a Don Quixote
in the crowd of the waves’ echoes and fists
and on the hotel white walls an invisible
audience’s uninterrupted clapping.
The swooping clamour of hearing eyes.
A flashing forwardness.
You are going to it, for the umpteenth time
that is always a first time.
Towards the relentless beginning.
You were here once as a desire only
then as a will in the blood,
the river within us meeting what’s all about us,
nodding at the approaching
brewing, foamy gusts
and racing ghosts,
at the swelling, seeping and flooding.
The mothers. Whatever.
The leash now pulls more strongly,
you are almost running.