Like unwelcome spinach
screwed up on the edge of
hash browns and white toast
the seaweed hugs pebble
sandcastles long-sunken
and craters a day trip deep
whilst the fading spiky scent
of salted and Sarson’d chips
lures eager pre-alarm gulls
as loud as rest’s calling
before the trains of tinnies
sweep up and pour out
the next fresh and fried
squads of penny arcaders
leather skin tanners
coffee shop loungers
and their cyclical points
literally toward the horizon
they remark stops and turns
their cassette tapes gazing out
into rescaling wave and sky.