SEASIDE

Metallic click of walking sticks,

On the paving stones beside the harbour

Or any other British seaside promenade.

And the hum of electric wheelchairs,

Beneath wheeling screaming seagulls

Whilst spoiled spaniels

Strain at leashes to attain doggy treats;

Almost overturning owners.

Old mods and rockers

Have returned to the beaches,

Scooterless and  bikeless,

But still bedecked with badges.

Now they’re more likely to fall over deckchairs

Than throw them at each other.

Then there are the giant windmills,

Standing in the sea

Turning, turning, turning.