It was unfortunate:
My last day in the sun.
Not to be beaten
By the unexpected summer rays,
I rushed to the beach
And allowed the sun to gaze
Full in my unprotected face
With only the ozone layer
And ninety three million miles of space
To protect me.
No sun cream here:
I soaked up the photons
On Factor Zero.
No-one would claim they had more time in the sun than me.
But, later, back at the hotel.
Delighted I hadn’t been beaten.
I was mistaken at dinner for beetroot.
And unceremoniously eaten.