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Kipper pate in the cafe.

We occupy the beach

in our folding chairs

surveying the sea

like the two old pals 

we have become,

baking in the sun.. 


The tide strolls in

at its own pace.

Swallows skitter

over the sand,

black-headed gulls

quarrel, a lapwing

calls across the river. 


The wind gets up, the crossing

becomes unwise.

We look out for flying balls

on our way back

across the fairway. 

Remember Betjeman's

'Seaside Golf' at a fond funeral. 

◄ The shopping parade

The poisoned garden ►


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Greg Freeman

Tue 29th Jun 2021 23:09

Point taken, John. Betjeman keeps wandering into my poems these days, Ray.

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Tue 29th Jun 2021 20:21

A little classic Greg just a perfect muse and the slouching figure we can see in brogues and hands behind his back I have a suspicion you like a windswept reach . I got used to them as a musician . My most depressing was the concrete esplanade at Blackpool, like an emplacement and not a good cup of coffee to be had anywhere in the 80s. I like "surveying the sea" as if something might happen.....


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John Coopey

Tue 29th Jun 2021 13:29

Sssshhhh, Greg. Northumberland needs to remain a secret.

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