On Home Beaches by Les Murray

Back, in my fifties, fatter that I was then,
I step on the sand, belch down slight horror to walk
a wincing pit edge, waiting for the pistol shot
laughter. Long greening waves cash themselves, foam change
sliding into Ocean's pocket. She turns: ridicule looks down,
strappy, with faces averted, or is glare and families.
The great hawk of the beach is outstretched, point to point,
quivering and hunting. Cars are the stuff at its back.
You peer, at this age, but it's still there, ridicule,
the pistol that kills women, that gets them killed, crippling men
on the towel-spattered sand. Equality is dressed, neatly,
with mouth still shut. Bared body is not equal ever.
Some are smiled to each other. Many surf, swim, play ball:
like that red boy, holding his wet T shirt off his breasts.

by Les Murray

Other poems by 'Les Murray'

Poetry And Religion

Travels With John Hunter

The Meaning Of Existence

An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow

A Retrospect Of Humidity

The Aboriginal Cricketer

The Dream Of Wearing Shorts Forever

Bat's Ultrasound

Late Summer Fires

Pigs

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