This is Zeb. JR is not here. He is at the end of the pier looking out to sea. I don't like to disturb him when he's like this.
Summer
Was that it?
Is that all there is?
A whiteout in the sky and rain dripping from the picnic table.
Canada geese in an arrow heading west early with disgruntled cries
and far below, the barbecue, rusting and neglected waits in its lonely puddle
for another year.
In the garage the gaudy sun lounger in plastic bondage still remains unopened
and the radios voice is trying too hard to sound enthusiastic when really it just wants to say ‘Oh bugger it”
The seaside vendors worry behind their shutters surrounded by brimming boxes of water wings and brightly coloured windmills on a stick as rain sodden donkeys huddle on the beach in the silence.
This year’s best sellers, umbrellas, the spray tan and the X Box for the podgy pizza eating kids ensconced in their caravans. Mum and Dad unwrap the playing cards and ironically play ‘patience’ knowing they’ll be back to work in 3 days to save for next years holiday.
A car with windscreen wipers in a frenzy drives through a murky puddle. The tyres launch a wave onto an old lady in a tea cozy hat at the bus stop. None of it misses her. She stands alone, drenched, rain on her glasses, dripping plastic shopping bags in each hand… Someone’s Gran.
Meanwhile the landlord of The Kings Head proudly tethers a giant banner to the railings.
‘TRADITIONAL CHRISTMAS DINNER – BOOKINGS TAKEN NOW!’
I've hidden JR's passport. I can see in his eyes that he is thinking about leaving. As we all know though, indecision is his tattoo, his foundation, anchor, roots and glue. He won't leave until it's done. I think we can trust him.
