Barafundle Bay Poem by C Richard Miles

That scorching summer day, we trekked all
The way across the cliffs from Stackpole,

The sky as turquoise as the distant ocean
Overwhelming gap-toothed rock formations.

Seen for fleeting flashes from the clifftop.
We glimpsed the steep slope on the left drop

Three hundred feet sheer into the washed rocks
Where, centuries ago, the waves had dashed wrecks.

On and on we continued, glad to ramble
On the rough foot-flattened track to Barafundle.

The pale beach, a bleached white sandy crescent
Stretched out, swept smooth by the recent

Rising tide of the powerful cold Atlantic,
Skirting and polishing the shores of Pembroke.

We scrambled, mountain-sheep-like, down the cliff side.
As the sea retreated, a seething rough rip-tide

Exposed storm-bitten hidden natural arches
Formally framing the best of Britain's beaches.

This gem, unencumbered by ice-cream vendors,
Undiscovered and ungraffitied by vandals

Stayed secluded from the trampling tread of tourists,
A perfect poem of paradise, for purists.

We claimed our sandy seizin, several square metres
Not some beach-towel sized plot, like where motors

Allowed access to commercial seashores.
Picnic unpacked, we children searched for creatures

In the rockpools: sea-anemones and limpets,
Pink hermit crabs, tube worms, curled like trumpets

In the wet sand, sandpaper-skinned starfish
And translucent shrimps that scarpered sharpish

Into cracks within the wrack-clad rock wall.
We watched, enraptured till called back, well

In time to savour sandwiches, ham and mustard,
Ravenously gobbled with great gusto.

Then we scampered down the beach to paddle
Where the breakers crashed and bubbled,

Sinking into the soft sand, pulled by backwash.
We plunged in to swim for a quick splash

Till, shivering, we sought solace on the foreshore
Constructing sandcastles, perfect pleasure

On the sun-scorched beach till, burnt red,
We had to cover up, childish minds unhaunted

By the thoughts of sunshine's threat to fair skin
As we received a regulo-ten roasting

In this suntrap oven. Later when smothered
In calamine, itching all over, perhaps it bothered

Me that I'd spend too long in the hot sun
And I vowed this summer or the next one

I'd be more careful, as I popped my blisters
And peeled the shedding skin, which my sister

Never seemed to suffer, though she was ginger
Yet I, the dark-haired one was in more danger

Of sunburn, But on the beach at Barafundle
It seemed not to be too much of a gamble,

A price worth paying, for the recollection
Of the day would represent a large fraction

Of childhood memories in my possession
Of summer holidays, a boyhood blessing.