Frying calves and tops of shoulders,
flailing sand, damming water,
building bolt holes from their brothers,
chasing sisters, splashing faces,
crushing castles into ruin,
eating sand stuck in the butter,
blown like needles in the wind
across the colour of the breaker,
from the waveward openness,
swimming, freezing, Frisbee throwing,
diving salt-ways catching salt
and seaweed in their throats and toes,
dragging fishing line from anglers,
red noses from the searing sea
– and sod the cream –
they're triple-jumping,
basking in the waves of glory
casting minds and reeling dreams
of Olympic wins,
as dad descends with torches of ice
to burn their tongues with cream,
and set alight their holiday.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Walls” perishes
in the grey matter of walls
– ice creams coated
in neglect on the plaque,
and boards barricade
the holiday brigade
from the tuppence machine
of mindless escape.
Up the hill,
a JCB digs a platform
for an extension,
burying the laughter.
Other houses stand sentinel
over the child- and paint-less shell,
like family members
at a bedside.
A grey cloud of dust seems
ready to shroud.
Come on JCB,
have mercy.
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