PERHAPS


Perhaps seaweed lines the shore not green and waving palms,
Perhaps on beach the cattle run.
Perhaps the parasols are for the rain
And not the blistering summer sun.


Perhaps the sand does not burn your feet as other climes,
Perhaps the sea is not so green.
Perhaps the waves strike cold against the back
And are not so clear as others seen.


Perhaps the sounds by the shore are those of nature's own,
Perhaps the disco's far away.
Perhaps the oyster catcher's piercing cry
Echoes clear across the bay.


Perhaps there are no clubs on package tour holiday,
Perhaps the lager's back at home.
Perhaps the only footprints on the shore
Are made by you and you alone.


Perhaps the sky is now grey and then of other hue,
Perhaps now paints a pink sunset.
Perhaps before a gold edged, rose red cloud,
The gulls return in silhouette.



Perhaps this is no coral sea desert island home,
Perhaps seen too far north on maps.
Perhaps we would be happy more content
On holiday elsewhere,
Perhaps.


                                  By Ron Sealey