(Typical seaside observation, that's all).
Gulls wheel and squeal and spin
like dirty handkerchiefs in the wash,
one settles to rape a discarded bag of sodden chips
before the inevitable vicious pecking war begins.
Circling cleverly around this dawning scene
an urban wind unfolds the day,
unwrapping the present before
purchasing the future.
Beachside, a traffic cone King Canute
unsteadily enthroned, straddles an errant deckchair,
his inebriated subjects having long departed
do not witness the repeating failure.
Between two stubborn weedy groynes
the chisk and rinse of pebbles fall,
like sarcastic waves of applause
slapping the seawall’s bitter cheeks.
© Graham Sherwood 09/2014
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