Written on the seafront of a very wet Looe on a Tuesday Afternoon in May.

The waves waved;

the gulls bemoaned the lack of footfall;

and the Heavens opined about the best place

for the rain to pall;

whilst I watched a moistened few of God’s more resilient critters walk limply by.


Where is the Summer Sun?

Where the endless day which run

into each other with a freeness of spirit?

Where the bucket & spade brigade?


Stuck in a cosy caravan playing cards for matches?

Driving further and further along the coast

searching for oases,

of which, today, there are none?

Or huddled under an awning,

wishing the morning, afternoon, and evening

could be like those of their distant childhood visits?


An empty promenade, though washed clean, is not the stuff of picture postcards.


But, I ‘do’ like to stroll along

the prom, prom, prom,

writing the words that,

like the seaweed upon the beach,

have sullied this blank page.

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