There’s something rather haunting
when I’m on the inner city streets
miles away from the ocean
and I suddenly hear the sea gulls caw,
the high-pitched screeching
takes me back to childhood beaches,
running across the sand just for
the fun of it, like Labradors
let of the leash,
to buckets and spades and sunburn,
to visits to brooding Welsh castles and
the flashing lights of the amusement arcade,
to sea-side picnics where sand gets everywhere,
in the sandwiches and our shoes and socks,
for days we’ll be crunching when we walk.