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



The children…two boys and a girl
Run towards the brown sea like dogs unleashed
And skitter across the cold, cloying mud.
A fog horn warns them of impending doom
Until Grandma tells me to stop scaring them.
They have seen more inviting beaches and sense prevails;
So we settle on the edge of the dunes and make camp.
The dun dishwater silt-soaked sea, cold and estuarine,
Holds little in the way of appeal except for observation.
I look for Wales…and spot it on the horizon.
In the foreground a hump-backed island
Breaches the coffee and cream swirling sea.
Groynes, like crones’ teeth black and uneven,
Leave me with a feeling of being cheated
As I discover they are concrete posts
That are merely pretending to be wooden.
The kids, now architects and construction workers,
Embrace the beach, a sandsculptor’s dream,
Whose digestive biscuit particles cling together
Like strands of complaisant DNA.
Web-footed dogs dart around the dull sands
And deconstruct the abandoned sandcastles
With their wet noses and dribbled urine.
When finally the sun makes a committed appearance
It comes to me that we are the memory makers
The providers and purveyors of halcyon days
For those blond-haired kids whose locks will darken
Hopefully more than their cares ever will.
They will look back on these untroubled days and
Wonder what happened to those well-met mates;
Those passing acquaintances made under the clouds
Who seemed so important at the time but
Have now left them to live lives of their own.

©gray lightfoot