Weather for Politicians

       by Natascha Graham, UK

The sea curls back
Like the lip of the woman next to me
Whose straight white teeth bite
Plastic straw
And tanned hand holds plastic cup
Whilst she says
It’s hot, but it’ll get hotter
In an accent stretching from place to place
Between Paris and Morroco
And we sit
Backs to the sky
Faces to the sand
Where, far out in the dazzle of sunshine on sea
a boy pokes the eye of a rotting turtle
With a stick
It’s body twice his size, rising and falling with the waves
A dull brown hump in the hot gold sand
with a glittering plastic collar

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