Foreshore footprints turn to natural wells
Billowing sails fan buoys and gulls
Distant tankers guiltily creep
Through slick free waters, fathoms deep.
Ample bodies under towelling tents
Capture the gaze of the elderly gents
A struggle, a shimmy, then over plump hips
Down drops the costume Who’s for a glimpse?
Pets and their keepers walk on the Sward
Children Leek pebbles and booty to hoard
Little white horses strut in perfect dressage
To the safety of sand and its camouflage.
The two that make turquoise
Join the bronze of the sand
And the pink of far people
Thread the grass of the strand
The diggers fill buckets
With succulent bait
The last supper for fishes
That end on the plate
The scene is of movement
The taste is of salt
The sound is near silence
My spirits exalt:
My stick (with just me)
Is only of elm
Are we sceptre and sovereign
In this pleasant realm?
