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.
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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.
