Besides the sea is probably my favourite place to be.
|Barefoot on the weathered, sun warm, worn smooth, grey wood. |
my toes curling, appreciatively as they feel
the gaps between the slats of the jaunty jetty.
As strolling, nay, sauntering, most unhurriedly,
I inhale lungfuls of iodine tinged fresh air,
the shoreline being strewn thick with rotting seaweed.
Below me, is the gathering tide, advancing,
a vanguard of sighing, curling, hissing breakers,
upon the welcoming sands, soon to be submerged.
Hand shielding my eyes from stark sunlight, as I gaze
Across bright waters, alive with borrowed brilliance
To whitewash walls and flower filled window boxes.
Holiday hotels are now in their fullest bloom
Every room let and all "No Vacancies" signs lit
The promenade positively abounds with trippers
in shorts and caps or summer hats, with buckets and
spades, flags, bags and windbreaks, papers and pot boilers,
pottering past posters for shows, coach tours, and attractions
not to be missed under any circumstances.
Those young at heart, companionably sit, and talk,
and watch. Sandwiches are munched, swilled down with tepid
tea served in plastic cups from stylish tartan flasks.
Cellophane wrapped boiled sweets are selected and sucked
Small dogs stare attentively, watching for titbits.
Children swarm on the beach, playing chicken with the
incoming tide, as it ebbs and flows, chasing it
out, then fleeing, with loud shrieks and hollers as the
water washes clean their sand covered toes and soles.
Budding hydraulic engineers scoop out handfuls
of soggy silica., They shape courses, tunnels,
moats, and channels to fill with welcome salty surge.
Cocky teenage lads lolling languid and spotty
Far too cool for fun, sneak glances at self conscious
girls, nicely nervous in their newly filled swimwear.
The middle-aged, spread themselves thin across their
towels and mats, shamelessly letting it all hang out.
Once pallid skin, now painful and pinkly peeling,
greasy and gritty beneath the searing sunlight,
soothed, somewhat, by the thought of dinner. Fish and chips
vinegar soaked and salty with bread and butter.
Scoffed before the reproachful, scavenger stare of
several seagulls, who whistle, whine and complain.