So I missed a day. So sue me. Family matters, they will crop up from time to time. Anyway, as November closes its cold grey fist over over our summer and autumn frolics, here’s a sonnet to it which might make it seem not quite so grim.
A November morning on a Devon beach, high sun on the promenade,
day trippers and tourists now returned to the struggle of routine lives.
Lined boxes where the beach huts were, as forlorn as abandoned summer
and a happy breath-smoked family have a private beach of their own.
There shouldn’t be much feel-good here, emptied of raison d’etre,
the sun now as pale as the echoes of holidays done
with a winter menace lurking on a grumbling grey-green tide
and valedictory silences in places people wave from.
Perhaps feeling good’s a dying art, monopolised by the mad
as we approach inextricably ever closer to the edge.
You can balance hopes on pin-heads, you can optimise ideas,
you can turn your back and sing to put the screaming in your rear
but this place today breathes peace to us whispering in the noise;
for a moment like a window, we walk the beach without a care.