Paignton by Ben Benyard

-
The precinct is alternately
pound stores and charity shops,
pasty flavoured rock and broken biscuits,
gormless boys and fierce girls.

Dream catchers and gollies,
fridge magnets, buckets and spades,
elderly couples sip tea in pavement cafes.

Scooters snarl up the seafront,
sand castles stomped by yobs,
donkeys who can tell a tale or two
about the faded peeling hotels.

Families in matching anoraks
eat chips out of polystyrene trays
on benches in memory of the forgotten.

And yet we flock in thousands,
walk hand in slippery sunscreened hand,
collect sea glass to catch the light.

---

Ben Banyard lives in Portishead, near Bristol, UK. He’s the author of a pamphlet, Communing (Indigo Dreams, 2016) and a full collection, We Are All Lucky (Indigo Dreams, 2018). He blogs and posts mixtapes at https://benbanyard.wordpress.com.

Comments

Post a comment

Popular posts from this blog

Letters never sent by Beth O'Brien

-
I write you letters, like these ones here.  I focus on my handwriting  so I don’t over-think the words  I’m never going to show you.  I burn a stamp, an envelope, and imagine  flames dancing from inside a postbox, pretending I can smell the ink melting.  Sometimes, I think that’s the only way forward and I wonder if red becomes redder if you burn it?  Every letter I write is a reminder of why  they are letters never sent.  Every letter I never send is a reminder of why  I write you words, like these ones here. --- Beth O’Brien is a third year English Literature student at the University of Birmingham. She has had work published with  Foxglove Journal ,  Nine Muses Poetry , and  BellaOnline Literary Review.  She is a reviewer for Mad Hatter Reviews and Riggwelter Press, and has written articles for  sheswanderful.com   and the  Graduate Recruitment Bureau  blog. 
Read more

Things They Don't Tell You by Barbara O'Donnell

-
That the moment the words terminal diagnosis leave the doctor’s mouth, the grieving starts. Speaking a foreign language to cover for the fact that there is nothing they can do. That the family will fight, even as they know the treatment plan is the best medicine available. That his swallowing reflex will depart before him, making you figure out ways to give him the only thing he begs for, cold juice or whiskey. That you’ll beg the pharmacist to tell you, which is the better mouthwash to use. As if it would make a difference. That you’ll spend those last days, not telling stories or saying how much you love each other. But that he’ll repeatedly throw you out of the room. Make you wonder again, whether to contradict the doctor’s orders ; to give him what he wants. But which will also hasten his demise. So that you can try to eke out the minutes, that the clock tells you are passing, but which seem to stand still inside the close, bare
Read more

The Telephone Call by Maurice Devitt

-
I was alone in the house when a phone started to ring. I thought it was strange; no landline and my mobile sitting silent on the table. The ringing stopped and a voice picked up. I listened for a minute and realised the voice was yours, so I wondered had you slipped into the house unannounced. I ran upstairs, chasing your voice from room to room but still no sign. I listened more intently. The conversation was light and frothy at first, and, loving the timbre of your voice, I grabbed a coffee and settled in. Like listening to a familiar podcast, I nodded instinctively to everything you said and even thought to anticipate what might be next. The start of a familiar story prompted me to re-check the house, tip-toeing self-consciously into every room, the sound seeming to ghost just ahead of me. I stopped when I heard a fresh intimacy in your voice, the volume dropping to a whisper, as though you knew you were being overheard. My heart was pumping and, when I froze ever
Read more