Straight as a plumber's line was

the coast road to Caister on Sea

unrolling itself like a prescription for

the well - to - be.

 

First the headline bungalows

like the freshening teeth of entertainers fixed

in the jawline, pristine territory.

 

Everything cream, a procession of vanilla

in the squat facades and barricades

that spelled the rise of business rents

squeezed by winter's eternity.

 

Suddenly the sea peeped through

teasing the uniformity,

the canvas of every dreamer of

picture - perfect afternoon tea.

 

I floated past in a fresh air dream

so much behind yet more in front

not in welcome for being too smug

self satisfied was the key.

 

Boating pool, crazy golf,

greens and reds and yellows

bilious history.

 

Cars parked, side on like piano keys

that played that municipal tune:

Come back from Sorrento.

Victorian shelter tearful with rust

to stare out from in passing time

as if the sea could argue with that

where couples shared a pseudo maritime mystery.

 

Streets petered out onto shingle

just enough meat on them for a traffic warden

with learning difficulties (parking is free)

 

Suppressing a shudder of unconcern

I went on my way to chase my only friend

the sun               and me

 

to take our permanent leave of

Caister on Sea.