We will go to the beach.
We will have buckets and spades
and a lightweight cricket set.
We will have factor 50 and pointless windbreakers.
I will tell you I hate the feel of sand
and you will put some in my socks.
I will be jealous of your waistline
and SpongeBob SquarePants swimming shorts.
The ice cream seller will get the sauces wrong
on our 99s but we daren’t say anything.
I will promise to get better at skimming stones.
The tide will be described by other writers
and the emerging curl in the centre of your head
will be controlled by the moon
as you whistle at the crabs in rock pools.
© Carl Burkitt 2021