After Louise Glück

I imagined coming to this corner of the beach and now I’m here.

I imagined swimming in the sea and now I’ve swum.

I flung my body into the waves and now it’s furred with salt.

I was here a month ago when the headland was green and I imagined it yellow.

Now it’s yellow.

Wherever I am

I often imagine being somewhere else.

In the beach car park is a Coles delivery van.

The driver looks Indian. Perhaps he’s on a break, listening to the Cricket.

Perhaps he’s just heard about the men who were expelled from the game

for shouting racist remarks at the Indian cricket player.

The van has a name painted on its side: Annette.

He drives away in Annette perhaps to deliver more groceries.

Three blond women in black dresses walk across the car park towards the beach

carrying glasses of wine. One of them might be called Annette.

Or all of them: a chatter of Annettes.

I imagine being on holiday at this beach.

I’ve already chosen the house I would stay in,

one of the shacks - weathered vertical boards, doors open onto a deck,

comfortable and lazy looking.

I imagine the beach sounds filling this house, warmed during the day by the sun.

When you walk inside out of the wind, it gives you a hug.

Other houses nearby are split level with acute angles

and floor-to-ceiling glass. There’s nowhere to hide. They don’t look at all lazy.

Perhaps the Annettes are spending time in one of these

or would like to, with their wine glasses on a glass table

refracting the sun light coming through the glass walls.

The wind has blown sand into my backpack.

My Louise Glück poetry book is gritty with it.

The sand shifts under my feet, my face feels cool.

When I return home, I imagine the gulls gliding above the water

and the sound of it, breathing.

I try to write a poem in the style of the intriguing, austere poet

and fail. No surprise there. I am not her nor she me.

I imagine her feeling gritty as she covers her body with sand.

I imagine her being wary of the sea.