In the depths of a winter sea fret,
far out along the beach,
the ice cream van waits.
Out of the fog the lost children
The children who have flown their kites,
dug their castles, grown and gone.
The children whose laughter
still echoes in the still air
above the waves.
They hold out their pennies,
stretching their hearts upwards
towards the lure of a funny face,
an orange maid, a super sea jet
or a sky ray.
Their shadows wait, shivering
in their damp swimming costumes,
for the timeless magic of the tinkling siren,
to restore their innocence, one by one,
in return for a silver sixpence.