The Picture May Be Sepia

But the sky was blue as a sailor’s kecks,
and the sun was bright enough and clear.

Surf froth-foamed across the shallow beach,
and the sea was wholemeal-brown and bitter-cold.

The shingle ran in streams beneath my toes
with each rhythmic push and suck of the waves.

There was song too and strummed melodies,
as the wind-slapped sail beat its metronome.

The sea breeze smelled of salt and seaweed,
the prom of fish and chips in paper twists,

and, bellies full, we slept on the train home,
our pockets bulging with shells and sepia stones.