I drive down Beach Road in Heacham
Park up, on the roadside, just before the public toilets
I have it in mind to walk on the sands
For an hour or so; a time simply to be
Getting ready to head off to Sandringham Estate
I take the camera, in its bag, out of the car boot
Check the Four-Hundred zoom lens is attached
The beach is gated, with a large, welded, angle iron affair
With such a dearth of caravans
Is it to stop joy riders joy riding on the beach
Yes, there are masses of mobile homes
Laid out in a maximisation of space sort of way
Just like Lincolnshire, or anywhere else I guess
I stroll rather than walk, meander even
As the sea defences become ever more apparent
I carry on, as far as what I take to be
A stretch of fresh water
A chap in a sleeveless, bright-yellow vest
Swigs from a can of lager, his military style camouflage shorts
Stand him out as someone who is here on vacation, always
South Beach Road runs out into a cart track
Although it does return to where my car is parked
Why have I been here? What have I left behind?
What is there which pulls me to nowhere?
Other than to be beside, and to look at the sea
I don’t go into the cafe
How much cake can one eat
Instead I climb into my welcoming limousine
The stereo plays my favourite music
This is more like the escape that I was made for
