Off the Seafront

“Over there,” you pointed, tired of walking.
“Let’s sit and see what gives this side of town.”
A bar just off the seafront, sparse on splendour.
Plastic chairs and tables on the pavement,
A grizzled barman serving with a grin.
Below us, Friday evening burbled
on the plaza – balls and skateboards
and families in clumps around its fringe.
But, over your left shoulder, I saw
Penthos in a checked shirt, hunched and ashen,
fidget with his brandy and viciously
suck a fag beneath his palm. Hopeless,
helpless, stupefied by fate, he nodded
at a spot that beamed back horror
and mouthed nothings.
But, before surprise succumbed to speculation,
before I thought to nudge you
he crushed his stub, slugged his drink,
slipped money on a saucer and,
unwitting as he entered, left my life.

A pigeon nodded to our table. Poddled
past. No pickings. You sat forward,
wound a wrap around you, smiled.
The evening had clouded. ,
I’d not noticed. Perception
is provisory and fickle.
A sideway glance can open curious vistas.
At other times from all directions
everything’s the same.

Hawk

Yesterday we headed for the hills.
The plan was simple. Lunch
above Frigiliana,
loop to Torrox
and home along the coast.

The tables set
on two sides of the pool
were basic. The waiter brusque.
I poured the tinto
he’d uncorked and,
while you powdered,
prowled the balustrade.
Behind me snarled
the rock snout of the summit.
About, hills lapped and
sloped to scraggy dells.
But beyond this range
of clay and dusty green
a splotch of the horizon
surged with lustre, azure,
where sky near Nerja
merged with shimmering sea.

You joined me, leaned
and, looking where I pointed,
nodded. Then, scanning, spied
what I had somehow missed –
a hawk suspended, etched
In hazeless sunlight,
intent upon the ground.
“He’s hunting,”
you almost whispered,
and we peered
among the scrub and olives
for its prey. To no avail.
And then he fell
as straight as deadweight.
An inch above the ground
he braked. Then reascended.

Whatever he was chasing
had found cover.
He hovered watching, rose
and stayed stock-still. Again
he dropped, the fastest
sentient thing I’ve ever seen.
A scuffle in the brush…
But no. He rose again
with nothing. You hoped
what he was after got away,
that he’d leave empty.
He plunged once more
and this time didn’t rise.
We scrutinized the thicket,
saw no movement.
You were anxious.
The waiter motioned
us to take our table.
Our meal was ready.

Daniel P. Stokes has published poetry widely in literary magazines in Ireland, Britain, the U.S.A., Canada and Asia, and has won several poetry prizes.  He has written three stage plays which have been professionally produced in Dublin, London and at the Edinburgh Festival.