Ghost Town

The bunting now flaps uselessly
In the wind that drove them away
They won't be back till next summer
Empty is the beach and the bay

The shutters will stay closed
While idle minds repair the damage
No longer lots of jobs to do
Just one person can manage

The funfair rides are silent
No children here to spend
The seagulls cry to no one
No picnickers to apprehend

The souvenirs are all packed up
Postcards cannot be bought
Like a ghost town till next season
When they prepare for the onslaught

But until then the streets are bare
The locals scuff their feet
Dressed warm against the winter coast
Waiting for next summer's heat.