Not for you, the rows of ordered hedonism,
Parasols and loungers angled to the sun
Regimented in an army of summertime fun.
Nor for you the danger of the depths
Flailing about, out of control
Failing some self-imposed macho test,
Needing to be spotted and saved
By the competitors – the muscled-up beach patrol.
Rather, you tread the middle ground
Where the roar of the ocean is just a sound –
And the enormous seafoam hands just wave
And don’t punch you around –
Here on the one stretch of beach
Where people can stand squarely on their own two feet
Fresh from riding in on the shoulders of those giants
Safe from the need for packaged compliance.