It stood,

It stood,

All alone,

Lop-sided,

Wooden walls, warped and swollen.

The roof peeled back,

Like a sardine tin.

It was once

So brightly painted.

Yellow walls,

As I remember.

And a pea green door,

Faded and peeling now.

There were others

But the sea has

Claimed them

As its prize.

The front row.

With the best view.

So long together,

They so proudly stood.

A postcard memory,

Of grander times.

With picket fence

And manicured lawns.

Securely protected

From the vandals

And ne’er-do-wells

Behind a boundary wall.

With no access from the road,

Without a key,

And a code.

Then came the storm.

And even the second

Row was swept away.

All but one.

It still clung on.

The dunes moving around

Obscured it now,

From all but a few,

Those who knew,

And remembered,

The good times.

Warmer climes,

When children played.

Whilst dinner was prepared

On the gas hob.

It always made

Such a good job

Of fresh fish.

A tasty dish,

For the summer

Beach party.

All gone now,

The sea took everything.

Even memories

Are hard to find.

Pushed to the back of a

Forgetful mind.

Once the door was

Boarded shut.

No more salty dog days,

Nobody waiting

For an opening.

The bolt well and truly drawn.

So long closed,

Salt encrusted Rust

Welding old metal together.

Forming a fruitless defence

Against trespass.

When, as the wind blows,

The devil surely knows

The elements will conspire,

The sea grow higher,

And very soon, the last

One standing,

Is bound to fall.