South of Greg Johns’ Rhythm, Glenelg
By William Byrne
As we packed and left the beach I saw
the valleys you both left below your towels
cast in the sand, as if a Henry Moore relief
was left waiting for its pour of bronze.
Just salty water would fill its curves,
and take some sculpture to the horizon
past the glass of Cape du Couedic lighthouse
above the white froth, in its red cap.
My friend and I left pleated circles,
our beer bottle bases, dressing the sand,
the flat Sparkling dregs simmering within.
You tanners were moored to your towels
while we sat in our shorts on the breakwater,
beards salted and drying on the boulders
before we burnt our feet on the bitumen
racing each other back to the car.
It’s still sandy below the pedals
from when you drove the four of us to my house
In the twilight, our empty bottles rolling
on the dash. I have never vacuumed there.