shadows cast into clouds of sand as footprints leave their mark
voices so full of fun with not a care in this world
summer sun washed over by the crash of thunder
the sea shouting against the shells to your ears

blue whispery skies feed warmness to the skin
as weeks of a worklife pass to say goodbye
ice cream melted to cheeks as tissue lips from a nan
feed a childs cry
this is what we live for in a world so left behind

donuts sugared a thirst as sticky fingers lay ******
fish from an ocean battered or fried to the best ive ever noshed
sounds of the beach washed over me as grandads snores a snort ..
too much lunchtime pie i guess ..deserving resort
dreams of a past ...dreams of another

football played and dogs all wet scenes from a beach
alive still ...kids gone red
searing sizzles from a sun at its best as rounders run
or frisbee fetched
photo taken a collection booth ..memories made as dreams come true
dreams of a summer
dreams of a summer

The world under the paving slabs may seem a world away but on my way to church, I saw a half completed excavation and I imagined the unearthing of some past settlement, maybe the discovery of a long buried society holding centuries of secrets of living with more dependence on the earth and less addiction to man crafted pleasures which would die the day we lost power.

I blinked and found myself shovel in hand, ankle deep in dirt and feverishly sinking the curved blade into the yellow and black clay, desperate to find a remnant of simpler times when a living was within most men's grasp at the cost of blisters and back strain, when digging was manual labour and a honest days work was done with at the end of the day and the unfinished work was left for the morning and not taken anywhere near home, where there was something near a worklife balance and neighbours were family and family were neighbours for better or for worse and, more often than not, worse, where budgets were tightened and a new hole was punched into your belt, with your hand me downs held to be your right not your punishment and if you didn't finish your plate you must be ailing or maybe angling for a day off school, where you queued for warm milk or for the tuck shop at playtime if you had thruppence to share with your sister before you ran a game of bulldog or kiss chase depending on your anxiety level, quick before the bell and queue again to sit in your allocated place based on your end of year exam result which always resulted in relegation to the back row bad influencer and never next to the girl who's cheek you had just missed, but you see her face reflected in the TV that got wheeled in for BBC Schools while the old guy dared you to show any suggestion of individual thought and secretly hoped you gave him cause to wield his size 14 plimsoll.

So I turn the edge of the shovel and refill the hole, I re intur what was good and buried, I intern the past where it belongs, returning to ground level where my spirit bubble bobbles for a moment while I find my balance knowing this is where I am what I've become - with my past giving me foundation not non-negotiable identification, and a reason to build not to burrow.

And so I turn round the corner into tomorrow to find what's next, acknowledging my debts and grateful for all that made me me - no regrets.