A Picture Of Copacabana Hotel,1939 Poem by Roy Ballard

Flamingo-leggèd parasols incline
and warm waves ripple in, urbane and calm.
A happy few, the chic of '39,
with tables laid for two beneath a palm
sip cocktails on the throng-less, thong-less strand.
Behind them, darkly moulded mountains rise
but here upon this very verge of land
with shock-heads feathering the azure skies
slim, naked palms go swaying down the beach,
their purple shadows sensuously cast
like silken garments cooling out of reach
for love deferred, forever; all is past.
We cannot touch nor make the slightest sign
upon the sands of 1939.