You can read this poem here.

Oh, I love this poem. Perhaps it’s because it’s so rare to catch Larkin in this mood of warm (if wistful) remembrance, of sadness counterbalanced with hopefulness, endings set alongside beginnings. All of life is there at the seaside, and for once it doesn’t make him despair, even if he is ‘[s]trange to it now’.

But as well as this… well, it’s just so quietly, closely, tenderly, brilliantly observant. You could pick out many bits, but for me ‘uncertain children, frilled in white/And grasping at enormous air’ is just so good it’s unfair.