Ballyholme was the 'local' beach when I was growing up and was accessible by train from Belfast. It was regarded as the 'posh' end of the seaside town of Bangor, in County Down, and is still popular with dog-walkers and elderly sea-bathers.
Domestic photography in the late 1950s was a fairly hit and miss affair but most families had a 'Box Brownie' camera to take monochrome snapshots that faded or took on a yellow tinge over the years. Unlike the plethora of digital images we have access to nowadays, these old photographs survived, if they survived at all, in drawers or cardboard boxes and the occasional rediscovery of one is akin to receiving an unexpected postcard from the long-distant past.
THE THREE
That summer day at Ballyholme,
while I stood there, milk-bottle white,
the three danced ankle-deep in foam,
their voices shrill with pure delight.
A teenage boy, in love, confused,
a problematic way to be,
my heart one minute warmed, then bruised,
I loved, or thought I loved, all three.
Life scattered us, but I recall
that reckless kiss, planned, yet unplanned,
the snap I took, the hasty scrawl,
I love you, in the wave-wet sand.
Though long ago, that day remains
stamped on my heart, so deep, so clear:
the subtle shifting of sand-grains
between my toes, a sense of sheer
delight, the water’s icy chill,
the clothes they wore, their faces still.
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