Seawater laps overfoot,
Chocolate ice cream trickling over little fingers.
Clouds drift by,
And sun peeks out.
Soft sand trapped between small toes.
The hubbub of the town behind,
Weekend crowds basking in summer warmth,
Propeller planes looping in the patchy sky.
Waves crash over polished, sharp-edged shingle,
Tiny feet crunching over gravel,
The low rise of dark mountains on the doorstep,
One day green, brown the next.
The salty tang of fish and chips in the evening air,
Deep-fried prawns and golden, crispy fries
As a far-off sailboat glides
Through the dark blue waters.
The distant, misty island,
Caught between nations,
A dark omen,
Signalling rain to come.
A pink hue, fading to gold,
A dying day.
Pinprick stars awaken, a crescent moon aglow,
As young minds slumber, imagination bursting to life.
The Quill Hand 