In the harbour, the mournful clang of hawser on mast
Rises and falls with the eddying gusts.
The boats are covered, shrouded for winter.
Benches wait unused, paint scratched and peeling;
The front is deserted,
Swept clean of sightseers by the biting wind.
Shop after shop is shuttered up;
Noone needs spades, or rock, or candy floss.
The hotels are almost empty;
Only the residents remain.
The peace of the promenade is broken only
By the discreet swish of the hearse.
Martin Locock, 2000
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