My summer ends, and term begins next week.
Why I am here in Bournemouth, with my aunt
And ‘Uncle Bill’, who something tells me can’t
Be really my uncle? People speak
In hushed, excited tones. Down on the beach
An aeroplane comes in low over the sea
And there’s a scattering as people reach
For towels and picnic gear and books, and flee
Towards the esplanade. Back at the hotel
We hear what the Prime Minister has said.
‘So it’s begun.’ ‘Yes, it was bound to.’ ‘Well,
Give it till Christmas.’ Later, tucked in bed,
I hear the safe sea roll and wipe away
The castles I had built in sand that day.