Tag Archives: #Beach

When I was a bowey

When I was a bowey,

I loved to go to Fowey;

listen to David Bowie

and Bowey George.


Then I grew up,

stopped playing with toweys,

discovered gulls, discarded buoys,

and all manner of beach detritus.


Now, I am washed up,

on the shore

but here,

at least for a little bit moor.

On the beach

Three little dogs,

twelve little feet,

one virginal beach,

as the tide moves out of reach.

Given no more than a few minutes

of running to and fro,

there is no part of the revealed sand

that doesn’t have a paw-print show.

Holes have been dug,

ragged rocks run ‘round,

and all can be discovered

from the tracks on the ground.

Three tired dogs,

twelve tired legs,

“We deserve a biscuit treat!”

the spokesdog says.

Holiday Haiku


and covered in sea salt sand,

from St. Ives, Cornwall.

Off to the Beach

I’m off to the beach

to teach the young dudes

how a planet occludes.

No, not really;

I’m taking the dogs

for a walk,

and to teach them to talk.

No, not really;

actually, not the talking part,

just the walking bit.

The Beach Route

In my purple prose

I have rarely written about ‘Beetroot’,

maybe this is because I am not a big fan;

or any type of fan,

I am just a mortal man – just –

and, thinking back to where it all began,

gives me a headache,

and so I won’t.

Don’t laugh, be serious a moment,

and turn that corner when you come to it –

unless you are reading a real book,

when you should use a bookmark.

Hark! No, it was just nothing,

or the sound of one hand slow-clapping.

I never know the difference,

hence, it is all the same to me.

Take the easy path,


take the beach route

and be true to yourself.

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.



If each beach

was out of reach,

how would we walk upon the sands?