At some point summer will leave
and winter will want to stay forever.
Itís a desperate thought on the pier,
edging out over the swallowing sea
while the railing holds your hand.
Hold on.
A small boat is swirling around in a
wind of weather with a solitary sail
that waves at you from wild waters.
Wave back.
This is a town of arrogant graffiti,
depressed shutters and broken pavements
where a penny awaits your thoughts.
Pick it up.
Seagull beaks are tapping on stone
and clawing at the empty promenade
as you eat your salt-and-vinegared chips.
Share them.
The vendorís ice cream is plain vanilla,
beaten by whips and whisks into a cornet
and then stabbed with a chocolate flake.
Bite it off.
Wherever you find yourself
and whatever you do there,
the season will end.
Itís all about hope.

Susan Wilson

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Susan Wilson would be pleased to hear them