This morning we managed to get to the beach. We got there before the Nippers.
November verse 14: A swim at Clovelly
Seven thirty, from Clovelly
Road, the sea's a silver sheet.
Once there, rub sunscreen on the belly,
back and shoulders, then the sweet
and icy plunge. Today no gropers
show themselves to interlopers
such as us, but one bold gull
dive-bomb swoops us, for the thrill.
And now the beach is full of nippers,
energetic, pink-clad, young,
reminding us that we belong
to boundless life. Ah, flat-white sippers,
once more dry and clothed, we sing
our farewell to another spring.
I have written this blog post on the land of Gadigal and Wangal of the Eora nation, after visiting Bidjigal land and water. I acknowledge Elders past and present of all those clans, and welcome any First Nations readers.
Me fail? I fly! 
I reckon the poems should go all year round. This one’s a beauty!! Xxx
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By this time each year I feel that way, but life generally has other plans, alas!
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Didn’t just ‘like’ this one but laughed out loud! The rhymes! The nippers and the flat-white sippers! Thanks.
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Sometimes the world practically forces a rhyme on you!
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We were promised a visit from Father Christmas
lately landed at Wedding Cake Island.
but smiled and sipped our coffee
in the café overlooking Clovelly Beach.
The flagrant sun was gone, closely wrapped in clouds,
loosing a full palette of velvet colour for our viewing pleasure.
And then it happened.
A pale blue boat, skiff-surfed the narrow break
and rolled between the headlands.
Four strong men, plastic-antlered, shipped oars
and stilled;as a bold-red Santa, in thongs, belled his coming
from the belly of the boat.
Sun-shirted Nippers on the sand, in colour-coded caps,
broke ranks and surged along the foreshore sand.
They sang him in with Jingle Bells.
You said something about ceremony,
sea-rites in ancient fishing towns.
I felt the heaven and ocean catch breath
and open up to mythology.
Such colour, such incarnation,
Christmas has come to the beach.
The beach!
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That’s fabulous, Ian. At the risk of sounding like a five-year-old I have to ask, ‘Did that really happen?’ If so, what a wonderful world it is after all.
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Yes, it REALLY happened! A Clovelly ecstasy.
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Clovelly without Father Christmas is already something – as your poem makes clear. That’s sublime
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I tried to post a Clovelly poem in reply but the start was chopped off. Damm. It wentWe were promised a visit from Father Christmas
lately landed at Wedding Cake Island.
…etc
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I fixed it.
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