Meet Place 1968 Poem by Terry Collett

It was the meet place,
sea behind noise making,
dull sky threatening rain.

Enbright walked beside Bill,
white rain coat open,
hands in pockets.

Told them you
were best for the job,
Enbright told,
feet on damp sand,
shoes making tracks.

Where's the job?
Bill asked.

Looked past Enbright,
saw gulls,
beach deserted.

Enbright passed him
folded paper chit,
watched as Bill
opened it slow with fingers.

How they want it done?
Bill said,
watched gulls take off.

Accident kind of thing,
no leads back
to the Agency,
Enbright said,
eyeing Bill,
his pale face,
dark suit.

I am a pro
I know what to do
and how,
Bill said moaningly,
eyes on the sand,
ears cocked
for Enbright's words.

Not saying you're not,
just making it clear,
Enbright delivered,
pausing,
eyeing Bill.

They both stood
and looked at the sea,
took in gulls,
incoming waves,
no one about.

Heard your father died,
Enbright let out,
looking at Bill.

Yea gone,
Bill said,
Mom's taken it bad,
she was close to him,
I wasn't.

Enbright nodded his head,
breathed in the air,
grey skies,
sea rush.

Bill said nothing more,
silence enfolded them,
chilly hush.