Go to the top of our avenue,
Turn left and you'll come to
The Cut, where we gathered
Blackberries and frog spawn,
And once, memorably, duck eggs,
Where we punted
Heath Robinson rafts,
Fell in occasionally,
And always got our socks wet,
Where we pretended we couldn't hear
Mothers yoo-hooing
Us for tea.

Cross the cut and the railway,
The embankment where we sledged
In fairy tale winters.
Along the cinder track
Is where the farm used to be,
With its duck pond, its hay
To make dens in, potatoes
We were paid for picking,
And a barn that, spectacularly,
Burned down.

Go to the top of our avenue,
Turn right and you'll come to
The beach where we swam
And played cricket, and then
Moved on to the shelters
Where we told truths, dared much
And promised little,
Where we gasped at Hank Jansen
And woodbines, where we were
Sometimes disturbed by
Men in macs.

Follow the promenade to where
There used to be sand dunes
Covered with marram grass.
Here the bolder or cheekier
Paired off to explore
The shifting humps and hollows,
Until the boys
Were called for National Service,
And the girls also
Expanded their horizons.