The sun beats down on Coogee Beach

Surf rolls and crashes, pulverises
the rock-hard, golden sand beyond
the reach and expectation of timid men
who, drawing on their lip-ledged cigarettes
or sipping lukewarm cappucino, seated
on hotly-contested, shaded benches
on the concrete promenade still chalked
with a giant, line-drawn dragon (green)
and passable attempts at Disney mice
and Pixar toys and monster to amuse
the kids now gone, digging for treasure
in the softer sand beneath the wary eyes
of mothers, sisters, grandmas, aunts;
all taking turns to clamber up the steps
in groups of two or three, waddling in suits
reminiscent of younger, carefree days
and making their arthritic, knee-torn ways
to the salt-water pool for women only
where they will exercise for half an hour
or huddled together, chatting in the shallows
although never entirely at ease but always
on the look-out for blue-ringed octupuses
sent tumbling over the sea wall regardless
of the well-intentioned plans we make
to keep all safe on summer days at Coogee.
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