The sun’s going to sting in a minute,
along West beach to Bracklesham Bay,
you see heaven is open and selling,
by the pound, with a well stocked display.
Sober people fill cars, on the limit,
buying balmy bright sundowny dreams,
made from sunshine and most of her treasure,
spilling gold like a king, in those beams.
There’s a war humming deep in the background,
as a school-boyish game skips ashore,
effervescent explosions are splashing,
to a silver crescendo encore.
Neither conscience nor guilt, undercurrents,
hold a torch to that soothing array,
then a wink from our yellow faced cherub,
makes the waving sun limbo away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem