Here’s the sunlight.
Here’s the land.
Here’s the castle
made of sand.
Here’s the lighthouse
there’s no keeper
every year the climb got steeper.
Sand of beach
and beach of promise,
watched by quiet eye of lighthouse.
Towering up above the foam,
light house
sweet home.
The pebbles are skimming.
The people are swimming.
They’re lunging and limbing.
They plunge and they slice.
There’s Punch and there’s Judy,
they’re fighty and feudy,
parental advice:
Don’t get sand in your eyes,
but in between your toes
and the hairs of your nose
and in the wrinkles of your elbows,
the sand’s alright.
The open-top buses
are one of the pluses
going down to the seaside’s
the best of descents.
My bucket and spade is
for digging to Hades
the lav for the ladies
is next to the Gents.
The sea it is seething
the toothless and teething
they’re all of them breathing
the oceany air.
On land and in lotion,
the sand and the motion.
Devoid of devotion,