Off Season

Packed away into their winter clothes,
summer's children are vanished;
no more to spring on sand-choked trampolines,
to splat icecream onto linoleum.

Clowns smile at no one,
crazy-golf dinosaurs bare their teeth
to a sharp Sou'westerly
and wellingtons slap against beaches
that trap the sea in their cold sweep.

The damp scent of nettles drags towards the tea gardens
and the clotted cream sours in the back room.

And on a cliff side bench
hand in hand,
they remember the pier that the wind tore away.