‘Where are the pedaloes of yesteryear?
Where the mobile changing-huts?
Where the costumes of sobriety and innocence?
Where the charabancs loaded to the brim?’
Well, they swapped the charabancs for coaches, and the rest have gone by and by.
Families fry, firmly entrenched within their garishly striped windbreaks,
acres of pasty flesh, pointing long-sufferingly at the sun,
adorn tartan beach towels;
ice-creams wave alluringly to the Cornish Sea-Chickens;
and I, sit apart, taking notes.
Dogs, ‘Banned from this beach!’
pant effortlessly in the late-morning heat;
and the Gulls tell each other of their passing with, ‘Pob-bob-bob-bob!’
Each patch of beach,
is guarded by its current owners,
intrusions upon their land
meet with swift rebuke;
but frisbees and beach-balls have no fear
of where they tread.
Intrepid adventurers seek the cooling waters of the ‘Ocean’,
or the ‘Sea’, or even the ‘Channel’,
geographically unaware of what is at bay.
Throughout the day,
Sun-worshipers, casual tourists,
amused (and bemused) locals,
and our wingéd friends
will ebb and flow;
like the tide,
they come, and they go.
Many, will return,
again and again;
but, it’s a different story
when there’s rain.