It was called the Swallow’s Hole,
A cave in a cliff beyond the beach,
When the tide was full it would be,
Just impossible to reach.

As little lads we played there,
And treasured it as a mystic domain,
Where pirates dwelt and counted booty,
And roared as if insane.

It was the crashing waves,
That was what our elders said,
But we lads knew much better,
For reality lives inside the head.

When the tide was low we would go,
For we knew buccaneers would not be there,
For why would they hide on low tide,
When on high tide there was nothing to fear?

The floor was layered with beach rocks,
From the power of the mighty sea,
And we all knew somewhere beneath them,
Great treasures had to be.

We dreamed of hoisting the mainsail,
And hearing “take up lack”
We dreamed of being brave pirates,
With the Jolly Roger at our back.

Oh, to be a lad again, when we
Didn’t have to slave
To keep up with the Joneses,
Never in Swallow's Hole Cave.

Memories of the beach on the front of Bell Island
  Submitted By: NULL