It’s eight o’clock;
sun still orange in the amber-spreading sky.
All sorts of people promenade along the beach –
old couples, youngsters, babies being pushed in prams.

The smell of garlic,
fried fish, aubergines and wine;
forks scraping plates
glass clinking glass

A seagull plunges towards the water,
cries, dives again
it sounds like a man dying. 

Children’s laughter falls lightly on the sand. 

The cicadas’  
loud, rhythmic droning.
A small fishing boat stands out on the horizon –
a drop of paint, a pin prick to my eye.

The heat sticks to my body
to my face.
It always seems to settle round my neck
a thick scarf, lost dreams, warm fingers, an embrace.

I wish to be naked, alone,
the sand beneath me cool
I sink into the sea
become one with the sandy bed
watch stars racing above me.

This water I remember.
This I know so well.