A little something to keep yous going. h aha My Beach The sound of the water gaining and receding, the beach, my beach, beckoning it seems. Stand at the shore-side watching my sea, feeling the flood of the memories. Im an older man now, a shivering wreck, but like a boy once again, shoes and socks round my neck, I feel the surge of the incoming tide, whilst trying to ignore the pain in my side. Doing the twist, feet sink in the sand, every grain, every stone, a caress as I stand, as the cold water wave breaks over my thighs, I stand in the water heaving sighs. Its been quite a few years since I last stood here, the beach was mine, so private and dear. Except in the summer, when the tourists descended, theyd stay and theyd play till the season ended. Even after that, a desperate few will linger, trying to hold on to sunshines last glimmer. Eating their chips, their hot dogs and flosses, their wins at the arcades, bemoaning their losses. Then the fairground winds down, to only a whisper, of the Ghost-Train boarded up, and ready for winter. Till finally, there’s only one punter left to sigh. The cessation of action, the closing of the rides, readying itself for those long lonesome nights. Then finally the beach belongs, to the locals once more. Nothing but beach-combers on these deserted shores. Desolate, wind-swept, misty and fogged, they walk on the promenade, or chase their dogs. Sandcastles collapsed, in the sand where they were made. Carelessly left behind, with lost buckets and spades, by the holidaying kids, as their parents got them dressed, impatient to leave, for their cries made them stressed. Along towards Roker, to the Cat n Dogs steps. A precarious stairway, like a ladder they stretch, all the way up from the prom to the top, nestled tight between, the rocky outcrops. Back down towards the Seaburn Hotel, the restaurant food on the wind could be smelled. Where a holidaying Lowry, often could be found, doodling on napkins as people gathered round, he drew beer-mat sketches, worth thousands of pounds. The sewage pipe stretches out, made of concrete and metal, a diving board for the adventurous to show off their mettle. Let the swimmer beware, when swimming all the way around, for its not just seaweed near this pipe, that is found. Further along theres the Lost Childrens Station, where thousands of nippers over the years have been taken, after wandering lost, from their unknowing parents. But after a while their stroll becomes apparent, till eventually rescued and reunited with each other, Fathers looking cross, but only love, from the Mothers. If the beach has a memory, would it remember me? Or even recall the friends we used to be? Singing and laughing and having fun together, swimming and climbing, whatever the weather. Off Whitburn beach there are myriads of boats. Cobles, motorboats, and fishing-boats, or just floats. Bobbing about on the crest of a wave, old ones scuttled to their watery graves. Some tied up to buoys, or pulled up to shore, a few even derelict and theyll sail no more. I think of the Coastline of the Northeast very often. It left its tide-mark on me and will never be forgotten. Like my footprints left in the sand at any low tide, this greenery that surrounds me now, I cannot abide. This is the longest Ive been apart from my beach, wherever I was, it seemed always in reach. I miss it, long for it, in every possible way. I make a promise to myself, that Ill return some day. Walking on my own two doddering feet, or scattered as ash, in the wind blowing east. Either way, Ill be back. Journey complete. Bri.
Posted on: Mon, 26 Jan 2015 09:06:25 +0000
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