It’s around mid-Spring, the sunshine’s out But there’s still a tinge of winter wind. And once again, we’re standing On a little cove beach, looking out At the powder-blue, mid-Spring ocean. But why?
My sister’s running around, Collecting shells and sea-glass. The wind blows my front Whilst the sun beats down on my back. And my mother’s keeping an eye on her, As she plays near the powder-blue, mid-Spring ocean. But why?
There’s a boy burying himself in sand. Walkers playing with their dogs. Even the occasional surfer. And my father and I, We’re drinking hot tea under the hot sun, And amidst the cool wind, as we look from afar, Over the powder-blue, mid-Spring ocean. But why?
My mother and I take a walk, Looking over everything that’s washed up. Little bits of porcelain, more sea-glass, Funny little distorted shells. Walking through monolithic reminders Of landslips gone by, and occasionally glancing, At the powder-blue, mid-Spring ocean. But why?
Because there’s nothing better to do. That’s why.
Poet’s Note: A similar context to my poem Sidmouth Seafront, except this time it’s based off a cove beach in Hele, near Ilfracombe. Some of the lines were inspired by conversations I had with my parents whilst there.
My muse is like an excitable dog. It catches sight of totally random things and starts yapping and running around and wagging its tail and WILL NOT STOP until I write a poem about it.My poetry is sometimes based on personal experience and sometimes on other things. Aside from that, I enjoy video games (My favourite game series is Mass Effect) and the popular television show My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.
’tis a playing field for many kinds out in the arena, to discern the companionship of the puissant sun ’tis a hot, new summer day , blithe and sound maketh thou run, run, run… syrupy voice of nightingale, fills candied
From the darkened waters where for ages they have roamed and toiled the fishermen, bobbing in their canoes with the rippling silent ocean waves, looked at the rays from the massive concrete superstructure dangling overhead it was like the heavens
Life’s all phases are boredom Except the youth – the handsome. The only stage full of chasm Is none than of Soldier’s column. Here we are full of sound strum Which separate us from scum. Our experience is a bit
Life has been never so humorous It is also not so rancorous. All teachers care for dangerous Children who lead life glamorous. But life my dear is not sonorous; It is much largely murderous. Teachers are the right rigorous, Who