Tag Archives: #Beach

Death on the Beach

It’s never easy to reach

a conclusion;

and even less easy

to reach a beach,

unless you are near one,

and can travel that way.


“Why the title?” you ask.


Well, gentle reader,

a poem must have a title,

or else untitled it is;

or titled ‘Untitled’

if you do desire,

written by a nun

or a non

in a choir.


“That’s just silly!”

commented the gentle reader,

his boots all aglow.

“What is all this nonsense?”


Aside: ‘The gentle reader must go!’


We met on a beach,

face to face,

toe to toe,

I offered the reader a lifeline,

it was tied to a speedboat just so.

Twice round the harbour,

once round the block,

when he returned,

I had a custard-filled sock.


“Whack!” went the sound effect.


“Ow!” the reply.


Now there was a death on the beach;

and, as to the title: that’s why.

I ought to go down to the beach again

I ought to go down to the beach again

to see the boats and ships;

i’d swim until the tide came in

then watch seagulls pinch my chips.

When the beach is out of reach

When the beach

is out of reach,

it makes you yearn the shore

all the more.


The seasalt air

blowing through you hair,

and softsand sweet

caressing feet.


Tides may come and go,

as much as you

who to and fro;

paddle in the shallow end,

a beach it is a hallowed friend.


Come rain or shine,

the walk is fine,

and much there is to sea.

Local to the beach?!

When it said it had availability,

I looked with interest;

it said it was in a lovely position

only 5 from the beach…


5 what I asked myself:


That would make it-

a quick calculation here-

about 96 trillion miles away!

That, in my books, is not

that close to the beach.

However, with second thoughts

bringing sense into reach,

they probably meant 5

minutes –

now that seems doable.


Inspired by:

‘Looking to get away from it all, we have availability in our static caravan. Only 5 away from Looe .

I found a pebble

I found a pebble

on the beach,

small and round

within my reach;

I picked it up

I put it down,

it made me smile,

it made me frown.


I visit the beach

most every week,

I see my pebble not

though I do seek;

perhaps someone else did find

my pebble there,

and did not leave my pebble behind,

took it away, without a care.

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.