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I walked along the shore,    orchestra of shushes as water slopped                         across my bare toes, jangle of pebbles as I placed one foot                                  in front of the other. In the distance                          the orangeade tang of neon lights                          punctuated the view, electric hyphens from the arcades crammed with Irn-Bru-skinned tourists    there for a week on this comma of coast. In the winter          it is different. A silver fug that sweeps the streets      like the cocoons of a thousand ghosts, machine jingles muzzled, cafes only drip                         fed with regulars                                                      from around the corner coming in to pick the horses for the 2.10 at Uttoxeter. The phone quaked in my pocket -    my mother, calling me home. I passed the sandcastle rubble,    slobber of seaweed    like the drool of a kelpie, my socks speckled with sand as I texted back on my way
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Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC
Beach Walk at Night
I walked along the shore,    orchestra of shushes as water slopped                         across my bare toes, jangle of pebbles as I placed one foot                                  in front of the other. In the distance                          the orangeade tang of neon lights                          punctuated the view, electric hyphens from the arcades crammed with Irn-Bru-skinned tourists    there for a week on this comma of coast. In the winter          it is different. A silver fug that sweeps the streets      like the cocoons of a thousand ghosts, machine jingles muzzled, cafes only drip                         fed with regulars                                                      from around the corner coming in to pick the horses for the 2.10 at Uttoxeter. The phone quaked in my pocket -    my mother, calling me home. I passed the sandcastle rubble,    slobber of seaweed    like the drool of a kelpie, my socks speckled with sand as I texted back on my way
Written: March 2018. Explanation: A poem written in my own time for university. As such, changes are possible in the future. The last line is meant to be italicised, but HP seems to have messed up this system for me (and maybe others) some time ago. Please note that 'Irn Bru' is a Scottish carbonated soft drink, while 'Uttoxeter' is an English racecourse. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
reece-aj-chambers
Written by
33/M/English
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC
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