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It may be the weather today, final warming on the skin, family sitting in our garden outside my window. Whatever, it draws me to share this poem that I wrote last year in Winter when reminiscences kept the cold at bay. It also seems to be a time now when I am drawn to the past or simply old age calling me back to younger times as escape. Enjoy.
Remembrance of a Seaside Outing
Nana Dillon thought nothing
of packing a picnic, marshalling
eight grandchildren like a
duck and her ducklings,
trekking us from Crumlin,
on buses and trains, to Blackrock
on a day when the sun shone.
Sand to play on or sea to swim in
but never both. Always
midweek, when travel was easier,
famed outdoor swimming pool
beckoned but never permitted -
it cost threepence
and we would be out of sight.
Seaside was concrete steps,
outdoor stone pool, endless dips,
picnic sandwiches with sand,
orangeade, flasks of tea,
a homemade cake, sunburn,
building castles, burying feet,
sand fights, ducking heads.
Home trek always came too soon.
Tired small bodies dozing
on long seats in old carriages
behind belching steam engine.
Nana ever caring for her keep.
The final crawl from the bus,
dinner, blacked out sleep.
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