Daily missive breaks into the weekend Sunday the 16th of November~by Peter Forster

 

 

Daily missive breaks into the weekend Sunday the 16th of November

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 nere-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.