Lowestoft Holler

There’s this little green town on the East coast
Where work all gets lost in the cloudy smoke
There’s a tan on the beach if you’re visiting
It still comes with cheap chips and ice cream

Every day the sun lifts the darkness
Breaking memories anchored in some trawling past
No crowds fill the streets, they’re in online
Gossiping or gaming over flat wine

Books banked in dust pad the library
While shops stocked in staple brands of jewellery
Alternate with smoking miscellany
As broad across as sacred is our greenery

When you pass by, and you will, don’t be afeared
The East coast is not the place it used to be
As calm and cool as any burg is wont to be
A little slower true, but aren’t we meant to be

 

Skeletal Beach

dead trees

 

Image: Keith Evans, http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/4669041. Words: Bujonswords.

Penfold’s Verse

Take me, hold me
Shake me, wake me
Tell me, Show me
Hold me, squeeze me
Follow me, breathe me

I’ll float away on your words
And I’ll croon with the Kakapo birds
When you’re here I can’t face you
When you go; how I chase you

On our silvery shimmering lake
I know your face reflected
The shiny stars that fly
Are merely others eyes rejected

And then, of course, you go away
You drift out where I fear to reach
I see you go and stand – think –
Then tear off down our beach

One More Song

One tiny verse
sung tight-lipped,
as it all gets worse.

Lost the bounce,
gave spring away –
Time tears at my eyes
and squeezes my day.

Thoughts pound my brain,
old thoughts; so sad
as still I clasp
at lives I’ve had.

Short painful routes
are all I see:
They scream my name
to recapture me.

Still the light dances
just out of my reach
so I follow the shadows
that lead from the beach.