At the Seaside

‘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.

.

Now …

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,

heavily fortified,

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.

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