He’s standing in the sea
with his arms outstretched,
knees bent, waving
imaginary locks on his bald head.
“He wishes he tried surfing years ago,”
his daughter says to me on the sand.
I watch him stroke his grey beard,
salt water glistening on cheek wrinkles
and lifts one leg out of the tide
like a flamingo. “Cocky sod,”
says his wife from a sunbed.

Carl Burkitt 2025