David Keig (1951 / UK)

He stood on the edge of Beachy Head
But this was not the sunshine day he had expected
It was windswept and rain threatened
He had wanted to smile
‘This is not the way’ he thought
Later in his room he began to question his resolve
So, slowly very slowly, he slit his wrists
The staff found him
At the hospital he felt happy and contented
He was still there
He was alive
The closeness of death’s acquaintance giddied him
It was then he realised that he had visited Beach Head wholly unprepared
He must not escape
He must put things in order
He estimated his life’s savings
He calculated his debt – largely credit cards
He decided to rid himself of all those clothes that we all keep and never wear
He destroyed his address book.
Then he went out for a meal
‘Good scoff’ he thought to himself walking back alone on the front at Brighton
Pebbles underfoot and the Pier’s lights dancing garishly over the water
The sea beckoned
He could hear it from his hotel room and it seemed to say ‘be safe be safe be safe’
And those lights kept dancing
By now, he wanted new rooms
For he had become a rather private man though still gregarious in public
The staff were beginning to annoy him
They had heard of his slashed wrists at his previous hotel
All he wanted was anonymity
So he moved
And moved again
And kept on moving
His affairs, however, were now in good order
So, he could kiss the wind and bless the sun alone at Beachy Head
He was there and then no more
And all those lights stopped dancing.