by Tony Steven Williams
The afternoon sea breeze is super
strong, the surf messy, confused,
grumbling like a hung-over mind.
On the beach, I see a veteran surfer
heading towards the café on the dune.
His Cairn Terrier stays back, watching
her master with anxious, trusting eyes,
but duty-bound to guard surfboard
and clothes, an inverted floppy hat
coloured with keys and phone.
The veteran surfer is deeply tanned,
his long white hair, beard, moustache
white-hot, flaring under sunlight.
Replace cossie and Pink Floyd T-shirt
with flowing robes and he could be
a desert prophet in a benign mood.
He steps steadily through sand drift
and tosses of high-tide shells,
past flapping shades, umbrellas,
towels bent under bodies,
his small, even treads relaxed,
his posture sure; no wheezing,
no stopping, just a slowing down
of a full life, his zinc-cream smile
as wide as the ocean behind.
Merimbula, NSW