It seems finally, on this Day 548 of the daily poems, to be a semblance of summer. Our poet Anne Symons recalls a summer bank holiday on the beach, in a poem from her most recent collection …
Bank holiday
On the day the beach ball hit my father
the sun was laughing, looking down
at rows of bodies stretched out to burn
on stripy towels. It wasn’t Dad’s idea,
he’d rather talk to his tomato plants
but Mum said sea breezes were good for us
and put ozone in our lungs.
On the day the beach ball hit my father
we staked our claim to a patch of sand
with windbreak and a wooden mallet,
took territory with tartan rug,
picnic basket on the boundary wall.
I brushed away the seaweed
so the sand flies wouldn’t bite us.
On the day the beach ball hit my father
toddlers were taken to wee in the sea
while grannies paddled, dresses tucked
in knicker legs. Seagulls lurked
like Teddy Boys on street corners
eyeing up their chances. Wind snapped
at pin-ups in the paper.
By the time the beach ball hit my father
the dog had eaten my ice cream
and Mummy had a headache.
Dad said it was the ozone
so shouldn’t we go home?
Anne Symons
from Shifting Sands, Anne Symons,published by Littoral Press April 2024