~SAND

We went to the beach on 22nd June and this is what I have to say.

Crossed legs, a work of fiction graces my eyes

And into them, sand flies,

Pulling on my sunglasses, I hope they will protect

My sight from the tiny grains of grit trying to enter the sect.

 

There's sand in my book and sand in my ear

It's a wonder how it got there when I did not steer.

Rising for a walk with Stephen and Jen,

I gather myself to wander in the heat via state of Zen.

 

We browse the town, stopping to admire artwork, birds and

Native American flutes, better than being wrapped up in a whirlwind of sand,

I buy a CD for a tenner as I love that genre so,

I promise myself that I will play it as soon as I get home.

 

Returning to the beach, we find our spot empty

Calling on a mobile, Lewis tells me they've gone to the other side

Of the pier where it's less windy;

And we trail across the sands, calories burning – I watch the push-pull of the tide.

 

With music in my ear, I watch the surfers

Ride their boards into the salty waters

That make waves,

Their success is a dot- to-dot of a treble clef upon musical staves.

 

Inspired by the wetsuit clan and my feet warm from the paddle,

I feel inclined to launch my whole body back in the saddle

So I turn, excited and stride up to the new spot where all sit

Looking bored and uninterested, for myself I will change it.

 

Grabbing my purple ruched costume and sarong,

I disappear to the ladies and change – I try not to take too long,

Quickly I admire myself in the mirror and wrap the colours round my waist

I must hurry back; the sunburnt may want to leave in haste.

 

A relaxed walk with a skip in my step

Takes me down under the walkway where it is not wet,

But I see everyone packing up, “you're not leaving are you?”

I'm not going to waste this chance of personal enjoyment even if it is the last thing I do.

 

I walk with pride down to the surf,

Get shouted at by the lifeguard for not swimming on his turf,

Five minutes and several wave body-hits later, his whistle he doth blow

And I see Gemma calling, yeah, she's calling “we have to go!”

 

I trudge back over uneven ground, back to the shore and under the underpass

Where flying sand hits my dampened body like pieces of glass,

Quick stabs of pain shatter through my veins and I try to block it out,

I grab my stripy towel and try not to pout.

 

The zig-zag steps that were once so appealing to descend

Are now the epitome of fatigue to ascend,

Trundling at the back I soak up my final moments overlooking Bournemouth Pier;

“Goodbye beach, see you next year”.

 

I bagsi the front seat for the drive home

And granted, the drive will be a long one;

Car-sickness and dehydration targets one passenger

I counted three times we had to stop for him to bend over.

 

Once back home there's no time for a shower,

So it's “throw on your fancy clothes and try not to appear too sour”,

Gemma and I head at a leisurely pace to the Highfield

Where a meal will await us and to it, we will yield.

 

Three pints of bitter shandy later and there's sand in my hair;

The pink is lighter, the purple dry and tangles everywhere,

But overall an enjoyable day and somewhat worthwhile

Having only docks in Southampton, a summer's day in Bournemouth was spent in style.

 

Reviews

[R J Askew]

I enjoyed this, because I think it shows great promise. You observe well and can write in a sustained and disciplined way. It is like a diary poem in that you build up the mood detail by detail. I think one or two of the lines might be tightened a bit, but I would not try and do that now, june 26. Leave it for a while, maybe even a year, then edit it down a bit. I can immagine you turning your beady eye to moods with the same attention for detail as the moments you capture here.