Middle Ground – Hour Three

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-upĀ 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 thoseĀ giants

Safe from the need for packaged compliance.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.