Skeggie Day.

 Skeggie Day.

A railcard ticket
To Lincolnshire’s coastline,
“Which way are we facing?”
We’re going back in time,
For a day beside the seaside
The rain did not stop play,
On Skeggie day.

Snakes and ladder fingers
On the backseat of the train,
Slipping her the whiskey,
She slipped it back again.
In a place of cloudless fancy
Only kite strings blocked the way,
On Skeggie day.

Under the Boardwalk, Up on the Roof,
“Above the age for drinking?”
The landlord asked for proof.
Photographing footprints
All along the beach,
So close to the salty edge,
But always out of reach.
Walking away,
On Skeggie day.

The ice-cream van stood frozen,
 The bandstand had no band,
Just Betty Boop mementos
For a Jolly Fisherman.
He thinks he’s on a promise,
A saucy postcard date,
But Betty left too early,
And the Clock Tower’s always late.
Time ticks away,
On Skeggie day.

A penny for the arcade
Soon comes to push and shove,
As four and twenty seagulls
Refrained from making love,
Swoop down on deep fried chickens,
Their favourite fast-food prey.
Cheap Take-Away,
On Skeggie day.

The tin skinned street art lady,
Trapped in her pantomime,
Waves secret hand-sign signals,
That passion is no crime.
She pays for rusting tea breaks
With small change from her jar.
Her day job is a statue,
By night she works the bar.
She has no time to play
On my Skeggie day.

The cinema on the High Street
Is showing “G.I. Blues”,
They haven’t changed the programme there
Since nineteen sixty-two.
A balding breathless doorman
In braided uniform,
Has a look of recognition,
Thinks he’s seen me there before.
He checks the tickets at the kiosk,
Checks himself out in the glass,
Checks the sidewalk for a certain girl
Who’s way above his class.
Perhaps a lack of judgement?
It’s not for me to say.
I leave him to his fate
On Skeggie day.

Returning to the station,
The train is running late,
The driver’s in his swimwear,
Been on a heavy date.
I take my seat inside the carriage,
Take a moment to reflect,
Take a photo for a memory
Not finished with me yet.
In the pages of my sketchbook
The pencils from my trips
All draw upon the good times,
Plus all the empty bits.
I’ve said too much already,
There’s nothing left to say
About Skeggie day.

Now plastic Disney figures
In fairgrounds long shut down,
All chat about the summer
When I still came around.
There’s no-one left to heed now
Their wind metallic voice,
They stand there for no reason,
They do it out of choice.
Before a wintry snowman
Took them all away,
On Skeggie Day.


All text copyright ian g craig. See also THIS PAINTING.

Note: "Skeggie" is a common nickname for Skegness.

An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".