I drove to the coast today,

across empty farmland and nowhere towns.

Straight over at every roundabout,

a lonely procession to a winter seaside last resort.

The amusement arcades pump empty pop across the concrete

the bus stop stares back, unmoved.

Boarded up cafes sleep through the afternoon.

Crazy golf courses become monumental graveyards of plastic castles and 

fake palms.

The rides on the pier look out to sea, 

stoic, tired and creaking in the wind.

Semi-sentient anoraks plod up and down the strip 

in silence, 

the odd abstract figure haunts a window here and there in 

mute seafront hotels.

Big windows for the view; the grey horizon stares blankly back.

A Ford Escort marooned in the middle of an empty pay and display.

An artificial lake in the rain.