Clacton Beach Memoir

She could have been
red with anger.
It was difficult to tell.
What with the sunburn,
the heat haze,
and the lipstick.

From the waters edge.
Where I was walking.
Tiptoeing on sharp shingle.
She resembled a windmill.
Such were her roundhouses.

It was odd,
almost a ballet.

The recipient.
A man in green corduroy.
Had the knack of guiding himself,
just out of reach.

A master.
A ducker
of a dancer.

As I ambled closer,
under the pretence
of buying a cornet,
with a flake,
She screamed this.

‘Come on angel,
cut me if you can.’

And he said this.

‘I’ll slice your face sweetheart.
So that they can play
noughts and crosses on it.’

She then whispered this,
just loud enough,
to finish him.

‘You could not slice a loaf of bread love.’

Now.
It might have been prudent
to intervene.
To call the police.

Make a protest at least.

But.
I bought an ice cream,
with a flake.

And walked back to my Mum.