A Beach at Peace
I stand on a beach.
The sun is high on a late summer’s afternoon.
The sky a cloudless, deep turquoise,
Mirrored by the undisturbed sea.
The gentle crash of waves soothing
Where they previously struck fear,
As they crashed against the side of our dinghy
In the dead of a frozen night,
Adrift, flotsam on the human tide,
Lost, but by God’s will, saved
And delivered to England’s shore.
The warmth has turned to a pleasant heat
My eyes close to the sounds of children
Running on the pebbles
The crunch of the stones underfoot
Mixing with their shouts of delight.
The heat takes me back
Saturday afternoons fishing by the small lake
Peaceful hours passing, endless.
The lake we played as boys, courted as teenagers and learnt the value of patience as men.
The one the regime bombed sending catfish soaring high
Landing in courtyards by the small houses
And rattling the roofs with a scattering of stones
Indistinguishable from the rat-tat-tat of the machine gun fire
When the militias came.
I smell the sea, and a waft of fish frying from the chip shops,
Carried on a cooling breeze.
They were right.
These days of sunshine and blue, rare but welcome
Remind me of home.
But the cloudy days of gun battle grey and rain bombardment
Are equally welcome,
Because the bombs have stopped
And life has begun again.
The nightmares will never cease
But while I am stood on an English beach
Looking back to where I came from
I have found peace
Which is all we ever asked for
