Scarborough has been waiting for this day.
A day to remember why it is here.
A day to fill the arcades,
spin candy floss and parade donkeys
to remind those who had forgotten
what a wonderful thing
soft warm sand can be.
It is time for the fond old girl
to set aside the blistered paint,
rusted railings and shabby chic.
A moment to shake her wet hair,
strip off her pretensions
and snap wrinkled fingers
at those who said her best days were gone.
Time to welcome the faithful back.
Once there were whole summers like this
when people came in singing coach loads
dressed in their best for a sunlit treat.
Children were lost and found in the crowds.
Mams set their deck chairs in a circle
for a right good natter
while dads rested their eyes
and showed pale white feet.
Fish and chips with white tablecloths
and bread and butter,
A stroll among fairylit trees,
and a pint on the way home.
The town has been biding its time
wondering what to do with itself
while they were gone.
It is time to wave your bucket,
bang your drum
and sing your song,
while the last flight of the Vulcan
roars across a sunlit sky
and dips its wings
to salute the past.