It would be a postcard

It would be a postcard

If the wind wasn’t

As sharp as a cutthroat

The foolhardy swim here

Every morning

Come rain or shine.

They look half-dead

Wearing wet suits

To pull themselves together

Trailing desperation

On the soles of their feet.

I was never impressed

Bravado is one thing

But the blue tinge to

The lips said no.

The sea is a cruel beast

Whipping salt across

The footpath

Crusting the woodwork

Ageing the facias of holiday flats

High viz workers

Stride the wooden deck

Like pirates

Refitting sea-facing units

With double glazing

Which tells its own story

The bite in the air

Stealing the music away

Heavy rock

Lighter than you think.

Seaweed gathers in corners

Twisted into braids

Like a knot in the hair of

An ancient mariner

Gulls cry for the old days

When they followed trawlers

Home

Feasting on blood and guts

Not fish ‘n’ chips.

The smell of kelp is heavy

With nostalgia

As new wave beachcombers

With metal detectors

Follow like bloodhounds

Digging for bones

The recently deceased,

Warm from a backpack.

Do they ever return what they find?

Parasitic mudlarks

Scurrilous wreckers

Salvaging lost things

From city dwellers

And volleyball enthusiasts

Who have never sailed

The seven seas

Or slept afore the mast

But had enjoyed a day

On the beach

When the sun shone

As the wind waited

In the wings

For another day more than just a picture.