LANZAROTE

 

 

Late afternoon, on this small beach,

Amidst noisy locals of all ages

Gathered in interlinked groups to relax

Between the working day

And the working night,

We lounge somewhat uneasily,

Feeling ignored and outnumbered.

 

Gradually, we focus on two little girls,

One dark, the other light,

But otherwise nondescript.

They are utterly absorbed in themselves,

Having built their own little world

With mountains of sand and hills of stones,

Towers of lolly-sticks and lakes of seawater.

In the centre of their tableau,

Lies a seashell, quite large but broken,

Like an altar at the centre of their play.

 

And these children chant,

Facing each other but with eyes closed,

Their fingertips poised in vague yogic ecstasy,

As if offering up a kind of prayer

Of thanksgiving or, more primitively perhaps,

Anticipating or celebrating some sacrifice

In their own little world.

Forgotten by their parents,

Only we seem to be aware of their game,

If it is a game – this protracted, solemn ritual

Taking place in the middle of women

Gossiping, men smoking, older children

Laughing and teenagers flirting and splashing.

And we recall the brief microcosms of childhood,

Here in the shadow of the ancient volcano,

Where two little girls live in the moment

Of their own little world.

(C. IGR 2010)

One of those ‘frozen moments’ that stay in the memory for no particular reason. Beaches are great places for people-watching, of course, and small children become completely absorbed in their play, losing all sense of time.

Picture courtesy Google Images.