Red canvas pumps:
Fascinated by the letters RO imprinted upon damp sand. Trying to work it out. Pat pours dark coffee from a vacuum flask. Should we be here. The sun is warm but the sea isn`t fooling anyone.
RO is repeated further away from the rock upon which we perch. I see ROC. Now I get it. The soles of my shoes have branded the strand.
We notice smallnesses. A dry mermaid`s purse. A heart-shaped stone. A footprint filled with salt water. We won`t do this again. A couple have scooped themselves into a nook by the jetty. Two young men on a bench up top are speaking Spanish as we curve past.
There`s the jazz singer who also draws humorous cats. Our greetings cross the road.
She says ‘I love your shoes, surely a poem in there somewhere’. Certainly, their Velcro straps please me no end.
I keep stumbling, momentarily stuck to the paving.
When I get indoors I stand a while staring at my feet.
I go out early, unable to sit still. Serious technical soles bounce me down Radford , up Treninney, past Old and New Wiggle. Just before the Triangle I stop and squat, stretching hamstrings. A man I know appears to my left, asks if I`m okay. I say too many words. He is already gone, and I`m glad.
I meet Friesians over a gate. They`ve been given names such as Picklish and Beiber and have numbers punched through their ears. They make low noises in their throats and approach en masse .
Sporadic walkers, joggers, cyclists en route above the bay.
Hi. Hello. Hi.
Not everyone acknowledges me which hurts a little.
The farm`s lamb and beef order chalk-board is wiped clean.
I study the hedge rows, their exuberance.
Sandra Tappenden 29.03.20