Bronte After Lunch

Set after set of crests pestle the sea pool wall at the south end.
Today it’s a country for young men:

packs of them besting the barbed wire guarding the rock
overhead, daring the drop into mist-glinted turquoise,

or turning and threading the surf to catch-and-pop
into their skill, all will and edge. The sea froths

neutral violence; I’m seething in time, my belly a knot
of the year just rushed by in a blur of contagion

and work. And I can’t help but think as I lurk
that this is no longer my nation. Or, if it ever was.