THE SURFER

The rich glow of sunset rides the restless waves.
He glides high on a crest, sure of his balance
and then soars like a gull. And landing is just as graceful.
He slides into the beach. Soaking, dripping wet.

He tells me it's California next year, as the *Strand
no longer challenges. But he's said it many times before,
always at summer's end when the lengthening nights
begin to deflate him. Touching the deep battle scar
on his thigh: "The Strand can be lethal!"

When he kisses me it's like drowning at sea.
But I find I'm developing gills.
It's daunting though, such fanatical enthusiasm,
and my slightest hesitation infuriates him.
Huge decision. He's asking me to sacrifice so much.
I am no groupie...but those gorgeous golden curls!

I plug in the Beach Boys. He drives the Volkswagen
into the night. The entire Universe is us,
sunshine and surf - and a peculiar kind of togetherness
that depends on lots of time apart and no firm commitments.
Approaching headlights pick out the blonde in his curls

and a picture-perfect bone structure.
Here, is my life.

*Trebarwith Strand, Cornwall, England.