scratby

this place of child time holiday
rough–town–by–the–sea
a sixties cheap estate
walls like gales blow mud

the cliff stair falls beneath the sand
of the grubby clean beach
paranoid watching men dog walk
boys charge run–rattle motorcycles

and for a moment I’m stolen
for loud sings the swelling sea
its siren peace sound surround
offers the glamour of nothing

I turn my back to that call
it’s not my time to answer
the sea rolls like drums roll
I know one day I’ll belong

poem

2K3:6

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