White sand stretches nine hundred and ninety-seven metres.
Or zero point six two of a mile in an arc around the bay.
On a summers day, forty thousand worshipers of the sun.
On a winters day, who knows? Who cares? Who dares?
Only the members of the Iceberg Club,
Fool hardy worshipers of the macho image.
Playing with ice, yet playing with fire.
Which might, one day, just kill them.
In summer, sand whistles like a desert storm
Stinging legs and arms and bodies.
Eroding suntans and factor fifty,
Leaving skin open, exposed to the sun,
Bare to the carcinogenic rays of light.
Which might, one day just kill them.
Sea crashing on a crowded beach,
Surfers revelling in the rough arc of the waves
Lifeguards watch with eager eyes
Still as statues, the adoring Adonai of the surf.
Remember Black Sunday, 1938,
Who knows, one day, it might just kill you.
Young girls nudging and giggling,
Watching the tightly muscled boys of the surf.
Young men, lusting at girls in their skimpy wear,
And boys watching boys in their tight revealing trunks.
Bodies shaved and oiled to glisten in the hot, hot sun.
On a summer’s day, who knows? Who cares? Who cares?
Who knows, one day, it might just kill them.
© joseph r mason 2019
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