On the Beach at Grange Over Sands

on-the-beach-at-grange

Creeks and wrinkles, green with moss and tiny flowering plants – here’s where
The old folks, hankies on their heads, sit drowsing in their canvas chairs,
While in the distance, blinking like a razor’s edge, the sea has turned,
Unnoticed. Still the snores from papers deepen as old timers burn.
The tidal bore is ripping back; snorting, pounding, growing fast!
A nightmare on its savage charge. Then sounds the Moaning Minnie blast,
And suddenly bare feet are scrambling over gullies in a panic,
It’s not as though we didn’t warn you. Leave your picnics, run with manic
Fear etched in your boggling eyes. One final surge should reach the rocks!
Then let the waves consume the shore and spit out flasks and tartan socks.

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