Ed Wright, ‘The Fine Art of Perving’
The Fine Art of Perving
Summer first turns up on a Wednesday in October:
29 degrees and the beach is packed.
You’re lying there with Joe who’s just been overseas
and you’re impenetrable in shades that stop the sun
from fracturing with its light
this languid parade of flesh.
The water is rippleless
as if it were toying with launching
a festival of heat and nothingness;
but doesn’t quite have the drive.
A girl lying ten feet away is turning pink,
a chameleon moving to harmony
with her pink bikinied bum.
“Gotta be English” says Joe, having seen how
on their Mediterranean jaunts
they lie on the beach daylong,
at least for the first day,
then spend the rest sunstruck, blistered
and grumbling in the shade.