SHAKESPEARE SANTA CRUZ
I
Our lame frisbee
A cut-price drugstore deal
of warped concave plastic
Is grabbed by the crosswinds
And flung from the orbit of our game
Towards the Pacific
In a whirligig of trembling hyper pink.
Our game abandoned
We are shunted back into the traffic of the beach
by the random lunges of the incoming tide.
Everybody is doing their damndest to make a day of it
This late summer Sunday.
Trainers strive to keep their grip on slimey rocks
And sand-prickled feet
Resist the craving for concrete.
We don't mind the highway fumes
We don't mind the smoke from the barbecues
We don't mind the salt in the wind
And the sand in our shoes
And the stone-grey clouds overhead.
We don't mind that here on this beach that stretches further than the eye can see
There is no escaping the raucous pull and push of the city.
I take a couple's photograph.
His love is feisty, angry, mean .
All he is about is
Possession of her.
Three photographs he wants. He wants
Three photographs
Of them.
As they pose on the shore
In the wind
With the tide racing in behind
His love is punching its way out of his tight leather jacket and trying
To hold the waves back
To tell everybody and everything to do with this whole beach thing
To hold on a minute
Whilst he holds her
Whilst he holds her
Whilst he holds her.
II
We are heading for Santa Cruz
On Highway 101
Our beach stuff in the boot
Should be fun
Meeting Gavin's friends tonight
Eating Italian, Greek or Chinese
Followed by outdoor Shakespeare
The Comedy of Errors we think.
The interior of the car
Is designed to make you forget it's a car you're in
The purring engine could be
A cat curled up beside the fire.
The air conditioning is drying off our feet
And we're playing a Baroque Favourites cassette
To accompany the view.
The sky has acquired a darker hue,
A black, sulky shade of blue.
The ocean stretches out away from us
Glistening with the last white sparks of sunlight
Skimming desperately through the massy clouds
In hope of some final ignition.
We pass a solitary white cottage
Open to Highway at the front and sea at the back.
A couple of lights are on inside.
A man in fading overalls stands outside
Talking fast to somebody.
Helpless in the wind
Washing on the line
Is blown, twisted,
Tangled, Mangled.
We pass a group of people standing around two vehicles
On the side of the road,
Talking and waiting.
A station-wagon, unharmed,
Stands guard
over a concertinad red saloon,
The boot has been cratered in
A concave mass of warped metal
And cracked spray paint.
Glass from a shattered back window
Is scattered on the tarmac.
Thank-God they all got out alive we say
But then I notice in a backward glimpse
The girl in the back seat.
Just sitting there
White dead.
She was in the back seat
So she must have caught the full force of the crash
Hard on her back.
Her hands rest quietly on her thighs,
Her platinum blonde hair
Spread evenly about her shoulders
She is staring straight ahead at nothing
Impacted in time.
The cars pass the girl in the back seat one way
And pass the girl in the back seat the other way
In the thickening light
And the air busy with fumes
And still in the back seat she sits
Cold
Past waiting
Her friends outside waiting for the rescue services
With the driver of the station wagon.
On the outskirts of Santa Cruz
I spot a fire engine, sirens screaming,
Racing out of town
On the other side of the freeway
Towards the girl in the back seat staring.
The Comedy of Errors
Is played for laughs
In a gaping forest clearing.
Great, dark, tall trees surround us. .
In the interval there are
Cappuccinos and cookies
And photographs.
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