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Click hereSpanish beach in August. Hazy sun
on the white yachts in the harbour, heat
on the swimmers, the sunbathers,
a line of buoys across to show how far
to go - and everywhere people
shouting, dry grass on the brown rocks,
trees wilting to an early autumn - is this
what I came for, dress stuck to my back,
sand in my sandals, surfeit of people,
of sun, of din? A few more weeks and all this
will be gone, like a fairground passing
through town, and there will be the wide
sweep of green hills, the silence - one unseen
bird twittering - and not a person in sight.
it flows beautifully and the writing has an effortless feel. 5ed.