Treasure Island

Angela Wybrow

(Salisbury, Wilts, UK)

A Walk By The Water

As the thick foam disperses, it looks as though
A section of sea has been covered with white lace.
As one lot of water withdraws from the shore,
With another wave of water, it is rapidly replaced.

Along the shore, feeling lonely and abandoned,
Are rows of beach huts, and a few wooden boats;
Their once brightly coloured, perfect paintwork,
Is now peeling, and looks in need of a new coat.

The rows of beach huts, which I pass by,
Are painted colours of every possible hue.
The huts are unique: no two are the same;
There is purple, peach, and pale pink too.

Dozens of dogs race around the deserted beach;
Each of them seems to have such endless energy.
Dogs dart around here, there, and everywhere,
Barking loudly with joy, now that they're free.

Amusement arcades are closed for the season.
Only a handful of beach cafes are open for trade;
During the summer months, they make much money,
But, come the winter, and their business quickly fades.

Brightly coloured buoys bob about in the bolshy ocean;
Of impending danger, they warn any approaching ships.
I walk into the freezing wind, which blows into my face;
My cheeks are like ice to touch, and I have tingling lips.

Deep patches of displaced sand from the beach,
Now softly cushion my ever slowing, tired tread.
On the tarmac, my feet rhythmically Tap! Tap! Tap!
But on the sand, the sound is suddenly cut stone dead.

Before I make my way back up in to the town,
I face towards the sea to capture one last thought;
It is then that I spot a young man on the beach,
Being photographed in nothing but his shorts!

Submitted: Friday, February 10, 2012

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