East Cowes Isle of Wight Sunday Morning Summer 1957

When all the world was tuppence

Every day a lucky penny bright

Over the road across to the green field

Beneath the Ash tree where Prince the Shire stands

Into the distant never been

On an edge of faintest blue

Hangs the mist upon the sea

Laps the foreshore close to me

Stone and shingle beneath my feet

I stoop to pick up a yellow shell

Listen, hear the sailor’s shanty song

Rain is on its way

Its nearly for time for tea