Whitley Bay

The sea has withdrawn with
understandable squeamishness
from this tawdry shore,
gathering it’s wavelets about it
like a petticoat.

Hostile gulls rake along the
strand strafing the last vestige
of a summer dream.

What comes to mind, a foreign
place, caught helpless
between enemies where, with
Parthian spite, sea borne salvos
razed the hotels.

What civilians remain have the
hopeless gait of those who search
for a face they might recognize.

Decay has taken the town square.
Poverty has raised it’s ensign.
The shambling sea front proffers
meagre fare even to looters, they
have pushed south with the trippers.

In the darkening air is heard not
the laughter of children, but the sour
reverberation of a drunken shout.