Once more we are here, leaving our mark in the sand,
each time like a beginning, distant memories
of our first sight of the sea and the stretching beach.
It’s a smile you can’t stop, a sense of freedom
among the elements and primary colour,
dead pan voices of young and old
muffled by wind and rolling wave.
We look out on that flat horizon
spoilt by scattered wind farms, feathered
by painterly coasts
and we walk and talk along the strand,
laugh at the silly names of beach huts
and wonder what we would call our own,
to sit in the sun
on one of those few good days of summer
with our rug and thermos,
munching make-do cream teas
bought on a budget.
It would be a life, I suppose