It’s a grey
mac and headscarf day, the sky
does not scream ‘SUMMER’
but see the determined trio march
from promenade
to the cloud-dark sand and shingle
for it is their day.
Identical bags
in identical left hands
carry blankets, sandwiches, a Thermos
of something hot
for that Riviera feel. From here,
if you turn your head,
you’ll spot the pier,
turn some more,
there’s the scenic railway – the cliff funicular
of Constitution Hill,
but now it’s time
for outwardlooking
as the broadening horizon calls.
Poem by Dave Hubble, Gallery Assistant