'The Tin Box' by Jan Lloyd

The pitter patter of rain on the caravan roof as it pours down on the tin topped box.
Packed like sardines in our seaside home I listen, wrapped up in the bunk below.
My brother sleeps on in the bed above, our parents are stirring in the room next door.
Seagulls cry out as the downpour persists, my thoughts turn to what we will do on our first day away.
Will we be walking, running or jumping. swimming, biking or fair ground riding.
Instead we sit staring through windows, pressing our faces against cold misty panes, hoping and longing for the drizzle to clear.
Board games are played to stop boredom descending until the sun peeps through and the beach beckons us out.
We run out into the salty air, collecting shells and splashing in pools, glad to be free and racing about.
Our cheeks are red and the sky is blue but the billowing clouds pile up and it starts to darken.
The pitter patter of rain returns and we run fast and breathless, back to our tin box for shelter, staring out once more eating hot soup and toast, pleased to be safe in our holiday haven.