Separated Churchgoers and Skaters,

Once upon a time, on a grim winter day, I was walking along the seafront and passing the empty paddling pool that had been converted into a skate park. Its emptiness seemed to compliment the day and I began composing a poem, I stopped because I failed to carry a congruous theme throughout:

Stitched onto the sleeve of the coastline,

A caravan park, inhabited by only the indifferent,

The only insignia of a resort remaining

Arcade windows and doors buttoned shut, its pocket flap kiosk serves no rations of ice cream,

The travelling fair no longer reports for duty,

Holes patched, the art of putting banished,

The leaders have deemed the management of the paddling pool unmanageable.

Yet rolling marauders spotted a breach in their defence,

Armed only with tricks,

The council’s guard had to be let down,

The watery no-man’s land, now a bastion of skate.

Of an afternoon, when orders haven’t yet been given,

Its tranquillity is equilibrated against the convoy of waves

Their armour pierced only by daggers of gannets,

Wings tipped black as is a mark of respect.

The concrete walls of the pool have yet to become fully emblazoned

The angry or boastful telegraphs to those too busy rolling to read

Only slow, careful invaders have time to spy the traces of the frontier spray cans

On this uniform of former glories.