A million grains whip on the breeze
to smash in your shin skin,
a thousand more mingle and eventually
line your sandwich tin,
How this beasted beach
Ingrains itself, swallowed down like
A crunching memory, to be
Carried inland and away from
sun filled days and
scoured sunburnt toes, wriggling
in wet through shoes,
clumped in abandoned socks
a forgotten childhood barnacled
On August rocks
Gavin Turner 