There are bones within my body

grumbling at their crumbling state.

The sands of Southport

plead for sunning,

running at a rate

too fast for me.

I’m the one who sits on side-lines

holding hand-bags, lunch and such

as brown legs scamper

splashing, crashing

through surf that’s much

too fast for me.

But memory’s a golden thing,

a feast of long-stored frolic.

To sit contented,

nothing repented –

that’s the tonic!

Not too fast for me.