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.