This was supposed to be a poem but ended up as prose, but then anything is an improvement on the blank page!
The end of the beach hut
Sitting in battered beach hut, rusty bolts, badly painted doors
sodden bouncy floor, bent nails, brackets barely holding
the whole thing together. Cup hooks with bags of beach toys,
buckets with smiley faces, instant barbecues from Woolworths
that never got to burning the burgers, bikinis two sizes too small.
a line of towels and an orange curtained changing area.
In the roof the huge blow-up ball hangs precariously
on a single thread. But the best bit the mural
where tiny hands once painted huge blue and green waves,
white sailing boats and an optimistic yellow sun.
Was it Jamie who branched out with the wobbly lighthouse?
Soon this hut will be prised apart, taken in a van to the tip
but not before we have recalled most of our memories,
unhooked the bouncy ball, washed all the smiley buckets.
The bright shiny new one arrives tomorrow, so if ever the grown up
grandchildren from Uni pop by, we hope they may pause a while,
light one of the old barbies and burn a few more burgers!
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