CHA-AM

"I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas."

(T S Eliot, 'The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock')

Beaches of the western gulf are quiet,

Waves neither crash nor roar,

But sigh and moan,

As if their thoughts

Were deeply drowned secrets

And the shouts of surf

Would render them known.

The day's colours

All fade into one shade -

Ocean, sand too,

Powdered blue-grey, grey-blue.

Some pigments change

Upon sunset's climax -

Scarlet, gold,

Above the craggy peaked view.

Young women pose

For digital portraits,

Picked by fingers

Of doting paramours;

No one, except me,

Seems to see the sea,

Only the girls' wet feet

Can sense its shores.

Ancient ‘farang’ men

Give iced beers a nudge,

Hiding ragged claws,

Minds prone to misjudge.

In January there's a cold north wind,

And even Nordic types

Wear shoes and socks,

While the townspeople

Don scarves and jackets

To watch pale green streams

Slap against the rocks.

There are confusions

In this climate change -

Strangely the sea spray still feels

Slightly warm

For those who know

Places of harsh winters,

And rain comes teeming

Like a summer storm.

Fragrances of pungent leelawadee

Soft mask the scent of salt

On beachside roads,

Mixing with smoke

From street stall barbecues.

Massage shops are empty,

No one disrobes.

The same foreign men

Sip cola and rum,

Hiding ragged claws,

Waiting for the sun.