Mrs Dryden
sat behind you
on the beach
combing your hair

you watching
the racing tide
the sounds
on the shingle

the other people
sitting or walking
or playing ball
or flicking Frisbees

each to each
her fingers
parting strands
patting down

waves of hair
she maybe reflecting
on the night before
in the cheap hotel

the creaking bed
the second rate
furniture
the Full English breakfast

she having
a young guy
between her thighs
she spoke

of her husband’s failings
his betrayals
his preference
for younger women

you taking in
the scarcely cladded girls
sitting or walking the beach
out of your safety zone

out of reach  
and Mrs Dryden’s fingers
moving down your jowls
her lips kissing

your neck
at the back
her breath
whispering words

you thinking
of Miss Fox
the year before
how you nearly went

all the way
(as they used to say)
until her parents
came back home

too soon
spoilt the fun
of one on one
look at that ship

passing over there
Mrs Dryden said
pointing out to sea
her other hand

holding yours
her words carried
on the air
and you imagining

Miss Fox
maybe sitting there.