Green petticoats ruffle the shore
frothy laughter dancing to and fro
around a traffic cone perched jauntily
on a well-dressed rock
Across the bay a digger
tears old concrete apart
ready for the shiny metal corsets
to hide an old lady's unsightly shoreline.
Soon she'll be dressed in black,
the perfect evening wear
clinging to luscious curvesthat will never breathe again.
This is the dread poem I started working on two weeks ago. And like any old lady, she's certainly had her whims and tantrums - not unlike the weather. But she's a game old bird, and love her or loathe her, (or the new walkway around the bays to Eastbourne) the new version is a lot safer - at least for humans...