Creative

On the beach

A green chair on the sand,
towels, picnic basket.
The sun finds me sitting
in blue trunks, Panama hat.
It’s hot. Not a record
that’s for tomorrow.

Rounded by the sea,
half bricks lie in profusion
half sucked in the mud
that runs to the sea
where people play,
walk at least a mile,
past boats moored
too close to shore.

Youths climb to rock them,
spatter with mud.
A coast guard comes
to yell through a bull horn.
Her uniform’s smart,
white shirt, epaulettes,
short skirt, shoes to
flatter shapely legs
not to stumble though
bricks, mud and sand.

We mix happily.
Only our voices
showing something of
who we are,
accents and languages
from anywhere;
a truce for a while –there
too few symbols or clothes,
for us to notice difference.