Poetry: Playing Cards
Julián was his partner at cards.
They rarely spoke to each other.
Occasionally, Julián might smile,
point out the soft curves of Olga's buttocks
as she walked back towards the bar,
but not to him, nor especially to anyone else.
And so he was free to dream.
Sitting back, only half-concentrating on his cards,
he would think perhaps of 'La Concha',
the long, shell-shaped beach at San Sebastián,
the way the sand curled like a lover's arm about the sea;
to dream of running across the warm sand
and plunging into the cold clear blue water,
the salt stinging into his eyes,
the heat of the day falling away;
and then, of lying back lazily,
borne up by the water,
gazing at the solemn statue of Jesus away to his left;
to dream of turning to look
at the small, humped island in the centre of the bay,
the heads of other swimmers bobbing like seals,
and back on the beach the small specks of little boys
played at being terrorists,
armed with gnarled machine guns of driftwood,
their voices floating out across the water
as innocent as a discarded balloon.
