My summer ends, and term begins next week. Why I am here in Bournemouth, with my aunt And ‘Uncle Bill’, who something tells me can’t Be really my uncle? People speak In hushed, excited tones. Down on the beach An aeroplane comes in low over the sea And there’s a scattering as people reach For towels and picnic gear and books, and flee Towards the esplanade. Back at the hotel We hear what the Prime Minister has said. ‘So it’s begun.’ ‘Yes, it was bound to.’ ‘Well, Give it till Christmas.’ Later, tucked in bed, I hear the safe sea roll and wipe away The castles I had built in sand that day.
