It is coming to that time of year

When battalions will assault the beach

Running marching plodding and tramping

Some dancing and lighting fires

Occasionally fornicating

An army armed with windbreaks

Mats dogs and towels

Bikinis shorts and trunks

Some with acres of flesh

Which wobble and supplicate to the merest movement

Others finely chiselled models

Of what is believed to be right to appear in front of a crowd

Tattoos and scars abound

Some fanned and tanned by wind and sand

All shades of orange

And of red

Some actually taking to the line of water

Half a mile from their valuables and cast-off durables

Some with body boards

An occasional rubber ring

Screaming girls jump up and down in rolling waves

By the end of the day when tide is in

And the sun has dropped its curtain

People are few

Maybe just a group of teenagers huddled round a fire

And all becomes quiet

 

The morning after the night before

On the battle-scarred beach and promenade

Lay the remains of stones piled up in heaps

The blackened bruised and battered bonfire bath

Of last night

A baby’s dummy

A dead half buried bathing mat

A forgotten ice cream cone turned on its head

Picked by thieving gulls

A bin overflowing with wrappers and plastic bottles

Soiled babies’ nappies

And a pile of stubbed out fags

 

Close to the water one right foot-tired trainer

Indifferent to the soft bubbling waves

Nudging and cradling it on the edge of death

All wait for the next wave to invade

That now not so secret beach