Margaret Atwood: At Brute Point

The old people descend the hill in slow motion.
It's a windy hill,
a hill of treacheries and pebbles,
and twisted ankles.

One has a stick, one not.
Their clothing is bizarre,
though wash and wear.

Foot over foot they go,
down the eroded slope,
flapping like sails.
They want to get down to the ocean,
and they accomplish this.

(Could it be that we are the old people
already?
Surely not.
Not with such hats.)

We may have been here before;
at least it looks familiar,
but we are drawn to hills like these,
remote, bleak, old history,
nothing but stones.

Down by the tidal pool
there are two plastic bottles
a few small molluscs.

One person pees in a corner
out of the sun,
the other, not.

At this point, once, there might have been sex
with the waves rampaging in
as if in films.

But we stay fully clothed,
talk about rocks:
how did it get this way, the mix
of igneous and sandstone?
There's mica too, that glitter.

It's not sad. It's bright
and clear.
See how spryly we climb back up,
one claw and then the other.