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Going to Semaphore Beach
Hot summer afternoons
and the call
of glistening water lapped
a child's mind with a want.
Just home from work
we would pester our father
until he relinquished
and took us to the beach.
At low tide,
feet had to splash through
what seemed like a mile
of ridged and rippled shallows
before the water was deep
enough to swim
and wheeling arms
could be swung
without touching the bottom.
Heated all day
by a January sun,
the water was as warm
as pee. Long tentacles
of dead, brown seaweed
clung to arms
as if trying to snare
a soul in revenge
for some storm torn horror
that had ripped it out its bed.
But all too often
it ended the same.
Tramping back to shore
across the endless shallows,
feeling hotter than when
you first went in. Flies clouding
sweaty faces and then
there was the hot vinyl
back seat of the car
to burn bums
on the way home.
All washed micraclessly
from memory when, next day,
the mercury nudged 100
and a want
beckoned us to the beach again,
still no wiser
than the day before.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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