Southwold

(Very old pearl of the East Coast).

My mother would have liked Southwold.
Seaside how it used to be, gentile, old money,
apart from the Aston Martins and the Bentleys
squeezed cheek-by-jowl in the off-prom terraced streets.
On the bank holiday, sun cracking the flag
she is breathless, wheezing under the strain
of yummy mummies, energetic Rafas and Jocastas
who picnic on her greens.
Come Tuesday, she is alone again,
a widow, abandoned, bereft and peering from empty windows
until the next weekend visit, with tea on the pier
carefully ignoring the Sizewell glitter ball
that fades into the approaching fret.

© Graham Sherwood 6/2013