Tuesday, 5 February 2019

The Black Pool.


It was Blackpool.

It wasn’t.

It could have been, might have been; appeared as such.

The tide was on its way out but I still got my feet wet; I followed someone else jumping over the pebbles.

There were houses where the sand would have been, or the carnival side shows. The folk living there were young, tattooed, muscled and cared to show it.

The dominant colours - pink and white.

The cafés were still shut; it was early morning.

Two men in grey suits stood on a corner, talking; I knew them, they were magicians.

But they were intruders.

The sea was stronger and had always been there.

It will remain once they are gone.

  formerly published in The Archives.

No comments: