Out of Season.

The arcades have closed their shuttered eyes
Against the cold blaze of the winter sun.
Only a few faded lights flash half heartedly into life.
Random sounds bleep to draw in the few passing strangers
who walk by with their hands in their pockets.

The shop windows clutch last seasons rejected souvenirs.
The darkened, dusty jokes repeat themselves over and over,
promising good times which might have been,
trying to tempt into laughter faces which will never crack a smile.
They have heard it all before, their lives are now threadbare.

Cafe tables are piled up, empty, and the silver urns are cold,
welcome signs left hidden or unlit, there is nobody to give or to receive.
The beach is swept clean of movement, noise and bustle.
Seagulls shiver and stretch their aching wings,
calling their hunger into an empty sky.

High above the town the castle lies, half asleep,
Stretched out on the mound like a tired old dog,
Licking its wounds and hurting from a fight.
It has seen centuries of life blaze, flicker out and fade away,
a stream of life, running down towards the murmour of the sea.

This shattered little town has known fame,
hosted both the chattering masses and the great and the good.
Twice it has held a fortune in the palm of its hand
before allowing it to slip through its fingers
into the greedy mouth of the soft sand.

But once a town has found its way into a persons heart
they will return, looking for what they have lost.
In the harsh winter sunshine the town sits on its haunches,
prepared to wait for as long as it takes, staring out to sea,
and there is pride and hope in the waiting.

 

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