He goes to a place to be there,
to be really there, away from here.
The metal seat is hard on his bottom
but no matter there he is.
Below him is a small beach,
that regularly accumulates piles
of seaweed wafted in on the gentle waves
of an otherwise calm sea, the Med.
The sky is clear blue with a bright hot sun.
Gulls sail the air currents in hope of food,
pigeons bob along the sand intent on raiding
the picnics of the holiday crowds.
Beyond this bay, rests an isthmus,
dotted with high end living,
couched in woodland and rich greenery.
His body settles in - eye flicker slows -
breathing expands lungs - head rotates.
Today’s daily view overprints the previous,
the power of the image increases, setting
off a trickle of quiet down his body,
irritation slews from his fingertips,
his world fades, tunes into the rhythm
of the tide which laps the shore,
sinking and smoothing the sand.