The sorry permanence of the lighthouse,
remains , far away.
Never to be visited, until too late.
The mysteries of the bounding shores,
so close, but too far for our youth.

The rumours of their secret places,
where fish jump from the waters,
into your waiting lap.
No line or sinker needed.

There castles, built out of hills.
Caves, smuggler haunted,
places of interest and excitement.
Not like these docks, this shore,
this life.

But here the Seaside boys,
took refuge from boredom.
Made shelters from imaginary storms,
built empires of shared fears,
and long forgotten
tales of elsewhere.

The irresistible call of the sea,
to laughter, play,
to be our confidant,
to lullaby us in its murmur.

The fishless oceans were,
for excuse,
our hunting ground.
Though we drew nothing but dreams,
and hopes,
from the ever-shifting shoreline.

The firelight of tens of thousands
of days of youth.
The dunes forever fading away,
to marram grass, and empty dens.

Away, to the shorebirds calling,
the sirens of the dark.
We baited, waited, and grew closer.
Friendships made to last forever,
in the sun,
which is forever setting.

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