You haven’t stopped looking for the chance,
the same of that other age when in the morning
you left home with nothing to do,
a whole day ahead like an empty beach
when you could easily end up drifting along
feeling just lonely and bored.
It was the time when things couldn’t decide
whether to straddle or tiptoe
and steps wanted to be flavoured
while you tried the tune of a half smile
and the appropriate aplomb.
You rang that bell many times in vain
but never gave up hope.
And there was always a day
when you found them all in and they ran down
and left with you towards the beach,
then it was all talks, plans, wind and dunes,
the day stretched with the future,
a busy dog hurrying along sniffing driftwood.
One evening in the twilight
you found a heavy stump of a tree,
large and massive in the wet sand,
with green mould shining on burnt knuckles of bark,
the gorgeous cheekbones of chance.
Dirty, almost useless but you liked it
and everybody helped you bring it home.
That night you looked at it for a long time
savouring accomplishment in the smell of its salt.
And time has passed now. And you smile at that half smile.
While you would like all back in a lightning-bolt.