English beaches in August
Hughes had it right
With the basting for
Hours & Miles
In leather oven cars
Or speeding across the grills
Only to melt
Get stuck to the earth
Like discarded lollypops
Coated in the world’s filth
Working at the holiday
Till it’s all work: no play
But he didn’t have it all right
Walking out on warm dune
Into the cool blue jacket
And putting it on
The surf crashing against your head
Like a tumultuous white crown
The swallow don’t know that.
The swallow don’t know
The boy’s wide eye
On turning the heavy rock
10 times his weight
Discovering the Atlantean crab,
The girl’s UH on clubbing the air
Like she’s giving atoms
Black eyes
And hitting the red ball for six or twelve.
Throughout the day
On the back of the beach’s sweaty knees
There are at least 50 epiphanies
Ted, you bit the red lip and kissed the beak
And sure, it’s easy to follow
Nature at work is Nature at its best
But man making the most of his idle time
Is just as easy to swallow.
