Tramp in a Beach Hut

by Angela Pickering

Late winter. Doors bolted. Although fresh paint
enlivens the row - a palette that sings.
Contrasting colours applied with restraint
cover peeled woodwork, the sameness of things.

Come early spring muffled couples appear.
Newly oiled hinges swing wide to the sea.
Baskets and holdalls shed sandwiches, beer,
and kettles are boiled to brew up fresh tea.

Sometimes they sell for ten thousands of pounds
despite the rule: beds forbidden inside.
Terrible price without garden or grounds.
You can’t swing a cat. Let alone hide.

I live in the pink. No owner about.
I’ll stay till they have to carry me out.

Copyright © 2020 Angela Pickering