A lion played on this beach,
making clawless prints
to the seagull’s screech,
tail ending in a flame
skimming the wet
in an endless game.
Golden sand
on golden fur
and
up again,
this mad young blur,
racing on the mirror
of a tide just left.
Wind riding in his mane,
the waves a-whisper with
long may live
this day of his reign.
No happiness beyond his reach,
the lion on
West Wittering beach.
I can never go past this beach without thinking that a lion played there once.
If you have a spare forty-five minutes, you won’t regret spending it on the documentary of Christian.
The Little Bookery 