The sun’s beaming right down right now
On to the beach where we once spread our things
And though they’re long packed up and grown indistinct,
The breakers continue to crash anyhow.
We can’t see the tight fishing lines –
Can’t gaze at the seagulls who’re raiding the chips
But although the salt taste has dropped from our lips
We know that the sun still continues to shine
On the cracked promenade and the ’50s wind shelter
With close-crooked houses behind,
In which to have a sit
Which might be the best
Bit of the set that we’d seen,
The scene that’s still set by the legs of the pier,
To which the barnacles proudly adhere
Not caring that we’re away staring at screens.
The hounds, who aren’t strictly allowed,
Continue to dance on the edge of the shore
And though we can’t see the exact shapes no more
We know that they’re tearing it up thereabouts.
On the 2p arcade and the old ice cream parlour
The sunlight continues to fall.
And though we’re now elsewhere,
Each paint-fleck is still
There, getting warmed by the rays
Which pour down on shorts and adventures and tea,
We’re no Famous Five, but we might have been Three
(somewhat less famously) for the time that we stayed…
It’s all going on, just a train ride away
In the autumn and winter and night-time and day
Any old how,
The hounds, they aren’t strictly allowed.