Poem By Peter Jones
There’s low scudding clouds on the sea today
and the rain lashes hard in my face
the boarded-up cafes have nothing to say
and I am alone in this place.
The driftwood and netting are blown everywhere
but no show at the end of the pier.
No-one will see and no-one will care
that the Dodgems have no-one to steer.
Seasonal gales tear at faded brave flags:
the promenade windblown and bleak.
Confetti is made up of ripped plastic bags
and the bus shelter’s starting to leak.
Where is the magic of so long ago,
to the child that once splashed in the sea?
I see my reflection and just do not know
what became of that innocent me.
Faint echoes of Augusts crammed on a beach
with the deckchairs all out on hire.
I turn up my collar and try not to reach
for remains of a now long dead fire.