It's eighteen twenty-six,
a deserted esplanade,
no hen nights, no fish 'n chips,
an onshore wind, a wave cascade.
An observer sits at waters' edge
on a rotting timber sledge.
He's looking seaward, not watching,
not waiting, deeply contemplating.
Then he paints a picture of this place,
a record in suble water colour,
of a man on a sledge at the waters' edge.
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 5:52 AM UTC
It's eighteen twenty-six,
a deserted esplanade,
no hen nights, no fish 'n chips,
an onshore wind, a wave cascade.
An observer sits at waters' edge
on a rotting timber sledge.
He's looking seaward, not watching,
not waiting, deeply contemplating.
Then he paints a picture of this place,
a record in suble water colour,
of a man on a sledge at the waters' edge.