The sands of time

The beach that looks out on the Channel

is uncomfortable, hard to walk on,

mainly shingle with just a hint of sand.

Difficult to sit on. But undeniably British.


Not far from the lifeboat station,

the arcade adjoining the caravan park

boasts of classic slot machines

from the Sixties and Seventies.


The shore is quiet. Only

the sound of waves lapping,

the mournful cries of gulls.

Bird reserve creeks in the distance.


Sun obscures the horizon.

If we return to imperial weights

and measures, can pounds,

shillings and pence be far behind?

◄ London September 2021

The age of wakefulness ►


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Greg Freeman

Sat 18th Sep 2021 09:15

Many thanks for your comments, Graham and Stephen. Knotted hankie, Graham? Have you not seen my smart cap? Thanks also to Stephen A, Rudyard and Holden for the Likes.

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Graham Sherwood

Fri 17th Sep 2021 22:16

Long live the Pound and the Pint (sounds like title of a forthcoming poem). I can see you on the beach writing this with a knotted hankie on your head. Lovely descriptions Greg!

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Stephen Gospage

Fri 17th Sep 2021 21:16

There is a sadness and uncomfortable reality about this poem, Greg. The sadness is wrong-headed policy wrapped in the attractive cloak of old, familiar things (at least to some people). I think you express it really well.

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