I've promised myself this will be my last excursion into wistfulness for a while:

 

The flat pale sand stretches away like an endlessly undulating sheet

covering the wonderful worlds of worms

who wilfully poke their tiny walnut whip casts into the afternoon sky

while I soak in the rhythmic swishing of the lazy summer low tide waves

and the boisterous conversations of the wheeling gulls.

The scents of seaweed, ozone and sun cream drift across the beach

and I feel the soft and gritty sand under the palm of my hand

and the playful tugging of a sea breeze as it brushes hair off my face

and blesses my eyelashes with fine grains

like sleep dust for a dozy afternoon’s napping grace.

On my lips there’s salt from the sea and salt from my chips

with vinegar of course, and a can of cold Coke

sits propped precariously beside my towel.

Why don’t I do that anymore?

Why don’t I make the time

for me and the sea and the tide

for that type of time that wanders away

with the worms and the gulls and the sizzling spray?