Some things are timeless, never forgotten:
The way the wind blows in across the sea
and scatters sand and sunlight on the pier.
I smell the copper tang of coins from the arcade
and sweet cloying of warm toffee on fresh popcorn.
I hear the cries of gulls and bingo callers,
the whoop of children and the whirr of jackpots lost.
Over everything, a layer of nostalgia:
The seedy charm of seaside towns in summer,
where old buildings stand, preserving ancient lights.
The local radio station road-show
is playing pop tunes from the nineteen-sixties,
while I am wearing chinos and striped T-shirt
in the same style as my father did before.
My memories overlay a black and white photograph
onto a scene where colours are growing dim.
I feel a swirling moment of tunnel vision,
as my childhood seems a single step away.
A fragile second, when a half glimpsed door swings open,
until the wind blows in again to slam it shut.
