A walk on the sands
I saunter along the narrowing strip of sand swatch shade,
content to be near, this patchwork, from sea and sun made
and tiny golden grains so sheer.
In the far distance I see a small boy wrestling with his kite,
flashes of yellow, blue and red, the wind for once just right.
Carried higher as the string is fed.
I cannot see, but feel the footprints marking where I’ve been,
soft sugar mould, and wonder if and by whom they’ll be seen
should their strange shape uphold.
Scattered at random lie odd crab legs and shells, all empty now
remains of afternoon tea, picnic scraps fought for in unholy row,
in a Seagull frantic feeding spree.
A meandering gait, left then right one eye constantly on guard
for foamy finger jabs, the sand by detritus and seaweed scarred
by sudden tidal grabs.