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.
2. THE BATTLE OF BREAN SANDS
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.