seaside town

Down in the harbour with the sludge shit-thick

Empty vessels catch their breath and creak

Rising, falling, falling, rising

Not done nowt but fall and rise all week

Sullen skies refuse to smile

Shop-front windows weep with their complaint

Dull-eyed, surly bandits turn their faces to the wall

A promenade of promises it aint

Tarpaulin shrouds on roundabouts

Swing-boats bound and tied

The ghost train stands dispirited

With no-one to take for a ride

Swooping, wheeling herring gulls

Punctuate the morning

Fighting for a chip, these squawkers

Sound a raucous warning

Seagull with a broken wing, flapping like a dead umbrella

Polystyrene chip carton scurries like a rat

Pudgy teenage pudding still hunting for a fella

Someone’s puked their guts into a “Kiss me quick” hat.

Slouched beside the bollards in a pink and purple tracky

Bored and listless caller takes a drag between the games.

There isn’t any novelty – it’s all just ticky-tacky

An out of season Northern seaside town is not the same.
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