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  • Writer's pictureTony Frobisher

Lost. By Sea.

Lost. By Sea.

The beaches are deserted.

Autumn spikes the air with

The threat of frost.

Fog gathers and the

Waves spill, listless, yet quiet.

On the pier the arcade lights

Pierce the fog with muted

Yellows and reds, green flashes.

One armed bandits rob no one

And the pennies won't fall today.

The souvenir shops are shut, shuttered.

No day trip families to shatter the peace

No children chatter,  sugar-filled and

Eager to play on the freshly revealed

Sands as the tide retreats.

The fog lifts, but the sea sides with

The gloom, grey, murky, uninviting.

A dog dips a paw, withdraws wisely.

And a cold wind ushers in the closed

Season, no reason to visit.

The first cafes spill dull light

While the smells of a full English waft

Along the seafront, ready salted

By the sea air, enticing a few regulars

For tea, toast, newspapers and sloth.

The sea looks bored, the town apologetic.

Autumn chills the residents and

Everyone prepares to hibernate.

Autumn to winter and months pass,

Lost, by sea until spring warmth thaws

The economic decline and the

Day trippers return, and the cafes

Flourish and the souvenir shops

Are full and on the pier the bandits

Rob with glee and the pennies fall again.


There is a stillness, a suspension of time and activity in English seaside towns once summer ends and autumn begins to infiltrate. Chilly winds and frosts, storms and rain, the nights drawing in.

The daytrippers and tourists desert and the residents enjoy the peace of a quieter, emptier place...while the businesses hope the summer feast will sustain through the autumn and winter famine.

A melancholy descends, infused by a grey light. But spring will return. The town just needs to see this time through.

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