Among the dunes is a rolled towel

Where he rests his shaggy head.

The starlit sky for his ceiling,

The soft sand is his bed.

At one with the crisp salty tang

Of dried seaweed in his nostrils,

Sounds of the sea lull him to sleep.

What use has he of hostels?

 

In the morning awakened by seagulls,

Soaring and calling overhead.

He searches into his rucksack deep

For an apple and his last piece of bread.

When finished he sets up an easel,

A rolled canvas he unfurls.

He paints and etches for hours in oils,

His talent overflowing in whirls.

 

So engrossed he doesn’t hear her approach

Until her shadow falls into sight.

He swings round to see her standing.

“Angel!” he exclaims with delight.

“I don’t know your name,” she says, softly

As she gazes at his artwork in awe.

“Grant?  It’s wonderful, I so love it.

And hey, you have paint on your jaw!”

 

Wishing that he had bothered to shave,

He rubs his chin to no avail.

“Grant, I love the added boat on the beach!”

“It was there, Angel, till a guy took it to sail!

And only half way through it I was too!”

She gives a gurgle of mirth.

“Why, how inconsiderate he was!

Isn’t that guy the scum of the earth?”

 

His lips twist with dry humour.

“Did anyone ever take you to task?”

“Oh frequently, Grant, but it never works!

Why, is there some reason you ask?”

They laugh, both enjoying the chemistry,

Then late for work, she must go.

“Will I see you later, Angel?” he asks.

“Of course,” she calls back, “we both know…”

 

(Sequel to "Angel on Horseback" and "She Rides Again")