“Sands of the sea. Bobbing up and down like this!”
Chapel outing.
Barry Island.
Children`s “sing-song” voices giddy with excitement.
Charabancs and aunties
With their frocks held up and their stockings rolled down,
Grabbed from either side and whooshed over the waves.
Sticky fingers.
Licking them.
Ice-cream dripping like custard down the cone.
Up to your skinny elbows in ice-cream and sand.
Nana and Dad
And Branston Pickle sand sandwiches.
“Put some cream on bach or you`ll burn!”
Clambering over rocks looking for limpets,
Shivering as breezes tease wet skin.
Wrapped up in towels to get warm snuggled close into welcoming arms
Until rasping sand makes you break free.
“Can I go in the sea again?”
Legs racing, flying down the beach like a bird soaring over the sand.
The space.
The freedom of it all.
The vastness of the sky and the ocean a heady combination.
You are the wind and the waves.
A magic to last.
To close your eyes and keep!
Then all too soon it`s time to go home.
“Come on cariad back on the bus now. Wave goodbye to the sea!”
Falling asleep on a lap with an auntie cwtching you and kissing the top of your head.
Contented and seeped in love.
Soothed by the singing of soft Welsh voices
Harmonising without effort.
A gentle lingering lullaby like the shush-shushing of the waves.
Jan Wharton