he said he was waiting for death
   eyes watchful over the sea
and on his knee - neatly wrapped -
   a triangle wax-papered parcel
      tied with string

winching at the badly kept beer
   my eye is caught by a picture
      of the house now hanging -
      captured then - with a paddock
         between it and the cliff

on the wall - more pictures -
nostalgic for a time - when people lived here
   when the pub had trade in winter
   and the school was more vibrant
      than the tennis club

after lunch I take some time
to walk back to that bench again
- he's still there waiting - waiting -
for the slow erosion to take him
   like the open slab of house exposed