The four poems that shelter under the umbrella title of CARAVAN AT BREAN (with the grandchildren) are basically four different aspects of the wonderful holiday in Somerset.


I am the wary ensign tacking through the ranks
Of sleeping lines with my bag for dispatch.
In the damp morning air, I inspect the troops.
Row after row….column after column
Cohorts drawn up for the battle of the beige.
A bland camp (with not a redcoat in sight)
Ready to fight them on the beaches
In corrugated plastic armour (we were warned of cutbacks).
I wince at their palpable vulnerability.
With skirts hoisted like bussed-in whores,
Each reveals an undercarriage for all to see;
Organs…bodily functions…fragility on display.
Having completed my orders, I take a minute
To observe the enemy…uniform…a darker brown.
With no ranks to order; they are legion.
A relentless reinforcement; wave after wave,
Viscous in their immutability; I surrender by proxy
And thankful my tour of duty is at an end
I retreat inland to my safe haven.

©gray lightfoot