MR BLUE'S LAGOON

The waves still break themselves on the south point

The same way as they did back then and there,

When and where skies were blue like the lagoon

And sounds of pounding surf filled warm nights’ air.

The canvas tents and caravans are gone,

Except those that stay a night then move on;

Grass no longer yellows under hessians,

Flash cars betray owners’ slick professions.

But there's something in the roll of the sea

That bids me come and walk these sands again;

Something in the whipbirds' sharp cracking glee

That speaks of boys before we became men.