Poetry

British Seaside

Caffeine intake today: I ran out of beans (I don’t have many indulgences in life, but my coffee machine was my biggest ever, other than our house. Otherwise we live on own brands everything) so I’m now on cafeterias, my second cafeteria of the day… whoops!

Hi all,
I’m not a confident poet but I enjoy writing poems of all shapes and sizes. To be honest I haven’t a clue what I’m doing but what the heck, here’s one I wrote after a lovely holiday to Devon.

Bea x

Seaside 2016

The great British seaside has many a story.
The sea hears the shouts, the sand hears the whispers,
the rock pools share secrets and the wind spreads the rumours.
Together they unite as our strong coastal sisters.

We dare not lack on a day with our heroines.
In our droves we arrive with every finger laden,
scanning the beach for the perfect spot to unload,
competing to see Blue, the fairest maiden.

Positions are set and the wind breaks are up,
the food is kept hidden, protected from sand.
Sandwiches, crisps, pies, juice and a flask,
the wipes on the ready for any muck riddled hands.

Families congregate on deck chairs and towels,
children grin with joy through ice-cream smeared faces.
Parents swiftly lounge with papers, mags and phones,
whilst Grandad plays ball and is put through his paces.

Unsteady feet edge carefully over spikey rocks,
the nets are out and the all crabs are hiding.
Eyes peer into pools searching for life
and the buckets are ready to gather the findings.

Sandcastle architects and builders unite.
Artists scatter shells, seaweed and wood.
Diggers dig trenches and someone gets buried,
neck high, for a laugh, just to see if they could.

And the photos. Selfies! Smile! Pout! Stick out a tongue!
Hundreds and thousands are snapped every second
Every, little, moment caught in the phone.
It’s the social media calling, oh, how it beckons.

Then the group with no concept of personal space
cause Bob to tut loudly, a British snip through the bliss.
They’re so close Bob can hear the fag’s light up,
but conduct dictates there should be no malice.

Elsewhere on the beach, in happier places,
kind hands unite and love is remembered.
Young and old gleefully share in the sun,
souls are soothed and bad memories tempered.

The sound of the waves pull some in for a dip,
tentative toes touch the cold water’s, and
screams of shock and delight pierce the soft air
once bitten watchers giggle from warm dry land.

Salty wet people wobble back to their plot
seeking Nan’s coarse towels and a sand free snack.
Grumbles murmur at dad for the thing he’s forgotten –
What! No Wagon Wheels? Next time, mum packs!

The seagulls aim for chips, chancing their luck,
but the great British seasider knows best to yell “Shoo!”
The white and grey sky torpedos flee, looking
for a naïve first timer who knows not what to do.

The seaside’s indulgence is stencilled on bodies,
red backs and white strap-marks cause unhappy pouts.
Sandra plasters on sunscreen too little too late,
tomorrow she’ll go strapless, to even it out.

The sun parades on, showing off her fine day
and the people absorb it, squeezing in what they can.
The fickle weather of small talk could strike any time,
the sun is their God, they’re her biggest fan.

And as the day softens and fades to tea and wine,
the crabs come back out in safety and knowing
that Bob’s tuts are empty and Sandra’s red raw,
and the sisters let Blue slip over them, flowing.

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