Colwyn Bay

Colwyn Bay

Upon the Irish Sea’s soft sigh,
where gulls carve silver arcs against the sky,
the promenade stretches, a ribbon of stone,
watching the tide pull its quiet‑toned groan.

The beach, a stretch of golden‑sanded hush,
holds children’s laughter, the shy‑blushed rush
of paddlers chasing foam‑kissed waves,
while elders sit on benches, remembering brave
days when steamers threaded the harbour’s throat,
and the pier stood sentinel, a weather‑worn coat.

Behind the sea, the hills rise, cloaked in heather,
their peaks a muted jade, a Welsh‑song feather.
Footpaths wind through gorse and ancient oak,
where whispers of myth and market‑folk awoke.

In the town’s heart, the colourful façades gleam,
shops offering tea, Welsh cakes, and a quiet dream.
The bandstand hums with brass on summer evenings,
notes drifting like sea‑foam over the revels.

Evening drapes the bay in a lavender veil,
the lighthouse blinks a steady, humble tale.
Stars reflect upon the water’s dark glass,
and Colwyn Bay holds the night in its clasp—
a place where land and sea in quiet accord
write their own verses, forever adored.