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  • Writer's pictureKirsty Taylor


It Begins

You wake up early,

Lather your skin up,

Put your headphones in.

Your hair dances in the light breeze,

As you glide along with a book in hand.

The light dances on your skin,

As the sand tickles your feet.

Your skin glows,

And you’re so glad that this is what you chose.

Towel on, Sunglasses in position. Podcast playing,

Wine in hand.

The Girl on the Sunbed

As my oat milk macchiato arrives,

Something catches the corner of my eyes.

Something that is shimmering,

As I turn to look I realise that it is actually glowing.

A gold necklace twinkles,

As it caresses her neck.

Her skin glows,

As she lays there radiant.

She lays faultlessly on her sunbed. As if she was a part of it,

And it was a part of her.

My macchiato gets cold,

As I notice her crimson red lips,

And how her golden hair flows down her body.

Some strands sway in the light wind,

Before retiring to her sunkissed skin.

My eyes move from her hair,

To the book in her hand.

A hardcover vintage copy of 'Little Women'.

The Wait

Loungers lined up,

Gaining their striped badge of honour.

One by one,

They have been chosen,

Some wait anxiously as the cold wind runs between their legs.

Then the lunch rush hits,

And they too now have their badge of honour.

Salt in the Air

Sand between your toes,

Salt in the air,

Sun on your hair.

People lounging,

Kids playing,

Dogs running.

Some people read,

Others just lay.

Some swim,

Others walk.

Some drink wine,

Others water.

Some wear sunglasses,

Others keep them in their hair.

A few just sit and listen,

Listen to the waves,

Listen to the laughter,

Appreciate the atmosphere.

Those are the ones that stay for the sunset,

And are up for the sunrise.


The first toe would usually send a shiver down your spine.

But here it feels just right.

3, 2, 1.


Head under, blowing bubbles.

You float for a little.

The salt tickles your throat,

As your body moves in beat with the waves.

As you emerge your hair glistens, As you stop and listen.

Whoosh, crash, whoooooosh, wh-------oosh, crash, splash.

The Watcher

You sit on the warm sand,

And let the waves tickle your feet.

As the salt scrapes against your cuts.

You watch the birds fly overhead,

And then dive down for their dinner.

You watch the dog swim,

And then shake to dry off.

You then watch displeased tourists,

Shake their heads and pick up their stuff.

You watch the boats go by,

You watch the waves float onto sand,

Or crash onto a piece of land.

The light dances on your skin,

As the salt tickles your feet.

- Words and Photography by Kirsty Taylor

- Feet in the sand photograph by Marion Jochmans

- Paintings by Hannah Hendry

- Illustration by Jane's Illustrations

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