On Bigbury Sands

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Immense cirrus streaks,

comfortably a mile wide,

span the big blue.

Phantasmagorical doves

pure white fingers,

like fanned flames,

frantic, flaring

overpowering us

we cower on the beach.

The twin tides are out and

Burgh, is no longer an island

so we trudge to the Pilchard

for beer, sandwiches and

a chance to gawp at

the Great White Palace

and dream of staying there.

Your heavy pregnancy curtails

anything more than a paddle,

knee-deep in the azure shallows,

soon we return to the towels, shaded

for your nap.

The late afternoon is gently

muscled into submission,

the chisk of early evening tides

vies for our ears

above the children’s frivolity.

Burgh Island sighs once again

and reluctantly draws up her skirts,

we bash our castles to dust

and head for home.

Published by grahamrsherwood