A BEACH OUT OF SEASON

Fierce waves batter a deserted beach,
almost drowning out the mournful cries of gulls
lamenting the loss of summer.
Nothing is as it was then.
Two crows fight beak and claw
over the meagre contents of a litter bin,
their black eyes glittering
with murderous self-survival.

Clumps of seaweed lie strewn about an empty car park,
the spoils of recent storms. There is a stench of decaying vegetation.
Parking meters have been removed for the winter
and the funfair stands abandoned and partially dismantled
like the skeletal remains of some gigantic alien being.
A lone powerboat carves the misty seascape in two,
as the Isle of Wight slowly disappears
in the grey coupling of sea and sky.

Shivering, I turn my attention to the locked and barred beach huts.

Blue, and red candy stripes conjure up the spirit of summer:
crowds and excited voices of children;
ice cream kiosks and shellfish stalls;
sugar rock batons with "Hayling Island" through the middle;
and rainbow-coloured candy floss...
aah, the power of nostalgia: I can feel
the scorching July sun burning my fair skin!

The sharp pain of wind-burned ears
shocks me back to the present. Pulling hood up,
I gaze once more out to sea. Huge ocean liners
loom spectral on the horizon like barely discernible ghosts
of last summer now trapped in a shadowy region between realities.
Then a sudden shaft of sunlight pierces the gloom:
a tiny splinter of Heaven that fulfils my longing
for an omen of the spring to come.