A Searing Sun

A searing sun beats down on the vast sands of our beach
Shadows of trees and huts, an illusion expelled by reflection
The next shelter sings of better but is beyond my reach
Still there I must go in quest of memory's perfection

I find an old deck chair which has almost seen its last day
And collapse while the wood, complaining, stands proud, high
Lifting my gaze south toward the once huge waves grey
Now no more than a few inches I envision the years rolled by

Of easier days, or so said, most likely naïve
Where the sun was rosier and the air pure and clean
Yet it is those in which we so eagerly cleave
Since through a fond filter those days are seen

Careless and trouble-free, no burdens to weigh down ones soul
Fleetingly washed by the peace of a child's simple dreams
Yet this vision is passing, by no means whole
Yet for a moment of happiness it fervently teems

By Pete Scopes