Stranded

Stand on a crack break your back stand on a line break your spine stand on a nail you go to jail…

stand on a square…

Another sullen day, wind and rain scouring the promenade. The shelters are occupied by solitary figures, some with bags by their side, one clutching a can.
Not him. He stands, head inclined, hand covering his right ear, staring intently at the pavement. He seems to be listening, watching, waiting.
He shivers, starts, steps forward, hesitates, carries on his slow journey from one paving stone to another. I’m captivated by his uncertainty, the way movement is continually arrested, interrupted, fascinated by the halting manner of his progress.
He stops, head down, treading the ground. Then he begins to dance across the pavement towards the railings, towards the sea, moving effortlessly from pink paving stone to pink paving stone, always seeming to search for the lighter shade, the unbroken surface.
He comes to an abrupt halt, the pink has disappeared, replaced by more sombre shades. I wonder why there’s a dearth of pink, want him to carry on.

The rain’s set in again and I’m getting wet. Time to leave.
He remains, stranded on this wet promenade listening, watching, waiting.