simple by andrew motion

While doing some work I came across this poem by Poet Laureate Andrew Motion.
It makes sense in a simple kind of way.

Men came from the sea
with their unusual catch –
one hundred and fifty three.
A fire burned on the beach.

They had expected nothing,
now there was a glut,
and also this man waiting.
The charcoal was white hot.

But was the man there?
One moment it seemed so,
the next he was not.
Master, they said, don’t go.

Like thin air shimmering
when powerful heat bakes it,
he continued his waiting.
Indefinite. Definite.

The fire burned on the beach
with their unusual catch.
They had expected nothing.
Now there was too much.
Andrew Motion, 2004

on the BBC website here
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