There is a sedate parade
There is a sedate parade
Of Sunday drivers
Whispering along the Avenue
Barely disturbing the air
A pristine slipstream
Sending an eddy
Of dandelion spores
Dancing
A slow waltz
Catching the sun
Twinkling like
A chorus line of fireflies
Performing a synchronised
Aerial display
Until an old thunder box
Held together with rust
Growls by
Spitting smoke
Blue is the colour
Of its poison
Darkened windows
Covered in grime
Are no disguise from
The crime of its pollution
There is no solution
But shallow breathing
It is the season
For picnics and fetes
Jazz festivals
And farmers markets
Draw the crowds
Fill the streets with fumes
Coffee and Burgers
With caramelised onions
Marching bands
In fancy costumes
There is nothing to do
But watch the display
From a balcony
Overlooking the array
It is a holiday resort
At the end of the day
They will all be gone
Come Monday morn
It will be back to work
And the school run
Until next weekend
When water sports
And high factor sun seekers
Return,
For a splash
Of family friendly
Good old fashioned
Seaside fun