He strolled the foreshore

He strolled the foreshore

His back to the sun.

What there was of the wind

Fluttered a flag

Hauled up in the front garden

Of an old Victorian.

A different one each week

It was a Union Jack today.

The King was invading.

In the news for his bonhomie

And enduring decency.

He’s come up in the world

From a wimpy kid

To the Monarch

With a comb-over,

Shouted at, to make reparations.

He took it in good heart

It’s not his money to give

He has enough to spare

Give or take

I suppose

But it sets a precedent

That could lead to poverty

For the old colonials

Some might say they deserve it

But do they?

Working-class people are always

At the butt end of history

Busted, deported, assimilated

It’s the toff’s who get

The headstones

The kudos.

They should bear

The brunt of any redress.

Break the bank of Monte Carlo,

England or the Federal Reserve.

Invert the pyramid

It is already tottering.

Where will it all end?

Not here.

Not on this seafront

It isn’t Omaha Beach.

He keeps his head down

Gazing out from under

A flat cap,

Swatting flies.

They follow his every step.

A fool's errand,

He has nothing to give

But sweat

And the back of his hand.

The sea is choppy

Littered with a mess of flotsam.

Some wags had thrown a few dozen

Traffic cones and lane dividers

Down from the pier

Doubtless, it would be cleared

Pretty sharpish,

Hopefully, before a swimmer

Caught a crab.

He has seen it all before

Doubtless, he will see it all again

Coming back

In the other direction.