We must go to the beach today and walk along the prom,
In coats with gloves, and bobble hats, to see what’s going on.
The kiosks, all are boarded up, the season’s not begun,
Eastern winds swirl round the bay, no warmth yet in the sun.

And yet, it’s busy on the front, Easter, weeks away,
Painters, builders, salesmen, cleaners, “lots to do” they say
Deliveries are coming in to fill the sea front stores,
The deckchair man is painting stripes on wooden beach hut doors.

Café owners buy their stocks of giant coffee tins,
Whilst council workers on the path are cleaning litter bins.
The theatre puts a poster up to sell the summer shows,
The Pier erects a brand-new sign “We’re open soon” it glows.

Everyone’s excited here, the season is approaching,
“This year”, they say, “will be our best”, (at least that’s what they’re hoping).
We sit and watch these busy folk, we’re lucky being here,
To see the seaside waking up and start another year.

The rugby team quarterback out for a run,
Watched and admired by two girls in the sun,
Whilst wild muddy children throw rocks in a pool,
Giddy with freedom from structure at school.

Old gentlemen curiously glance over fences,
To peek at allotments that tickle their senses,
And here come the mothers, pushing their prams,
Whilst pushing their theories on gin-flavoured jams.

Hand in hand couples, too scared to let go,
For fear of disrupting their shared status quo,
Queuing for green tea to sip on the wall,
Whilst posing with phones for no reason at all,

Dogs chasing balls by the cricket pavilion,
Scaring the pants off a passing civilian,
Toddlers with mothers, now queuing for loos,
Dripping soft ice cream on newly bought shoes,

Smoking teenagers, who let off some steam
by flicking their tab ends at flies on the stream,
Watched with great envy by young café staff
Who wish they were out too, and having a laugh.

Such is a day in the life of the park,
From ten of the morning,
To just before dark.

Charcoal and graphite,
A pencil sketch morning,
Traced in the moonlight,
Drawn at the dawning.

With filigree frosting,
Blown on the breeze,
Dusting the hedgerows,
Icing the trees.

Such texture! Such shading!
A flick of the wrist,
A dream of a picture,
Diffused in the mist.

The artist steps backwards,
He captured it all,
Suspending the morning,
To hang in the hall.