The fishing village

provides nice ladies to chat up

who don’t mind that we slouch on their steps

and even give us tea!

 

The ratio of pub to  methodist  chapel  is  better than some

with juke boxes, lager, fag machine

and Stephanie - all of five whole years

with Oscar her clock-work dog.

 

Until, somehow

space-skipped, time-hopped

we are collecting sea-weed,  driftwood

on Eden’s very own beach

the tide, silky on the turn;

baking bonfire tatties, garlic-buttered

with  lashings of salt, sand and cinders.

 

And you write

among other graffiti

all over the sand.

 

But we didn’t.

Even the fire-brigade

the castle overlords

the proper people with dogs on strings

 

even God did not.

 

 

 

 

March  1991