One Bottle Beach

We had spent the week composing our 

playlist. Six decades of songs, we’re not 

taking that midnight train to Georgia today. 

 

You’d found the best price for fuel,  

I remembered my antihistamines.  

You cracked a joke about yellow; I didn’t get. 

 

You tried out cruise control, somewhere 

around York. It didn’t work as you’d  

thought, so you carried on without. 

 

Each mile shook under our rubber soles 

and the music shuffled on. In the stifled air  

of queues the songs argued with themselves. 

 

A rape seed headache overtook me  

around Fylingdales and our ears detonated  

with anticipated songs of shells, and rigging.  

 

Over the next hill you cried ‘First to see  

the sea wins’, and the prize was all yours. 

My tinted eyes saw Henry’s ruin. 

 

Four hours to backfill three missing years. 

Humble Pie and Mash for Lunchtime carbs  

and gravy boats. The headscarfed woman  

 

complained they had waited ten minutes. 

Her companion sang along to Vera Lynn.  

Oblivious, you read The Athletic. 

 

Leaving her lack of gratitude behind,  

we continued the mission at hand.  

First a convenient public pit stop. 

 

A human sleeping bag showed us  

how to pee for free. I shoved him   

a fiver, all seemed fare enough to me. 

 

Along the Pier we walked. I was looking  

for Basking Sharks, you pointed towards 

a windsurfer near Sandsend. I giggled. 

 

We watched the cast lines break the silver  

light,as day trippers and pirate boats passed  

below - earning their mid-May bonus. 

 

Two hours remained here, the perfect  

time for coffee and cake. But where? 

Marie Antoinette’s café of course! 

 

Overlooking red ridged roofs, we drank 

and ate. Across the harbour sits Sophie’s 

bench, a Whale bone Arch, and Dracula. 

 

Here, 199 steps lead to the Abbey, Jet  

workshops surround cobbles underfoot,  

downhill to Captain Cooke’s endeavours.  

 

Our final walk of the day begins through 

narrow streets framed by smoking cottages, 

down seven sand swept stairs onto a shingle shore. 

 

The Grand Hotel’s fretted terracotta tiles    

laid to rest amongst brown Seaweed,  

driftwood, stone sculpture, and garlic bulbs. 

 

I framed a photo of you collecting  

a glass bottle as the bather’s chattering teeth  

merged with cries of cliff bound gulls. 

 

One more old friend to call on, Beck Hole. I had  

the guest ale, you a large latte. Only you know  

why you waved goodbye to the yellow Gorse.  

 

Every night we watch the dark sand  

swirl inside that discarded green bottle.  

Conversational Echoes from our Beach.