SEPTEMBER ’72

The fishing nets are gone.

Gone is the harbour, the soft clean sand, with waves that come on each other time after time. Gone are the brown bodies, bare feet, buckets and spades. Gone are small boys who filled the air with noise, movement and just being. The whole day was theirs to fill as an ever changing mood took them. Freedom of long hours, no time limit, no section to their day; all this has passed one more time. The fish tails of the two that got away, broken plane wings, toys that lasted an hour, the instant friendships; long light evenings with a million interesting things to find in the dampening grass.

They are gone.

In their place two clean small boys, compressed and neat; eager, apprehensive. Freedom is curtailed; their prospective once more narrowed into disciplined channels. How will they fit in again. Socks and shirts cover summer’s fresh air. There are no bare toes in school.

They have gone again – one year older – one year more of being able to cope. Small ghosts run free and untrammelled as summer fades. The rocks and sea must be happy for their presence.

Here it is quiet, so quiet.