Serendipoetry
Cromer
We sat in the beach hut, eating
tuna sandwiches off moonfaced melamine plates.
The women with the pug dogs, hooded
hawklike between the fishing boats, spelled out
the summers in tricksy triple-word-scores, gulling
each other while they waited for the kill:
the seven-letter fifty-pointer
that would blow their opponent
right out of the water.
Overhead, the yards rattled
like cipher machines, tapping out secrets
the length of the prom.
We sat in the beach hut, watching for
enough blue sky to make a pair of sailor's
trousers.
-- Helen Tookey
-- View archive