English seaside (bank holiday)

They sneeze along the pier
hankies wind blown out of reach,
ghosts of the next day’s sun
to bleach around bins.

An ice cream seller grumbles,
his cheery brow still remains
even as the face relaxes a mask
he can’t remove, so reads the paper
held as a rayban shade.

On the beach, seagulls shriek
at pasty looking sandwiches,
“Cheese and pickle!
We’re not that desperate.”
they hover for some better quarry,
moving white wing flecks,
vocals flee out to sea.

Summer memories stroll the days,
intended to only be photos
left in a scrunched kodak box.

And all afternoon fisherman’s shore
shifts, waits for the next sortie,
for the gulls to return,
and for the tourists to move
handles on car doors, hearing
the departing exhaust slam.