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  • Writer's pictureTony Frobisher

Seaside Drinker

Seaside Drinker Bar stool tumbles and peanuts scatter, A mumbled, fume soaked apology. His face wears a faint borrowed smile, Creased with life, folded in And lost to the past time. Years that disappeared like the last dregs, Drained from the spit smeared pint glass. Blurred and fog-bound, clouded over. The smile erased to misery. As darkness resumed its residence, Clinging to the soot black rings Hanging sad under bloodshot eyes. Each vein fiery, forked, venomous. Snaking towards pupils that swirl Haze driven and unfocussing. And buried deep into sunken, hollow cheeks. A nose flowering in alcohol-bloom. No time for any more drink, The pavements beckon. The shock of cold Greeted with obscenity. "Fuckin' wind, hate this bastard cold!" A momentary pause, swaying in the seafront gale. Bearings lost, a directionless start Where to? "To oblivion and beyond! The wild hair dances in the wind, Laughing as the joke fades to bird calls And is swallowed in the waves . He walks on, no hope in his heart. Just drink in his veins. The distance covered in footfall stumbles and The staggered shouts of a lifetime. Wasted. Lunchtime, Drunktime. Wasted. ________________________________ They sit in silent pubs, lost along the seafront, shoring up the bar in pints and shorts. Oblivion awaits beyond the door. I have spent a lot of time in Britain's seaside towns. A playground for many, a place to visit and enjoy and relax, spend happy days and holidays. But you also see the sad realities, the lunchtime drunks, morning fuelled and raging against the days, or sleeping, wine bottle in hand, on a windswept, seafront bench. How did it come to this? So sad to witness.

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