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.