Beach Huts ~ A poem by Marc Woodward

The Beach Hut

Beach Huts

April means unlocking, sweeping off spiders
and sand; putting out to air the rug,
stripy beach towels and faded sun-loungers.
Checking the kettle, rinsing out the mugs,
closing the fridge for beer and lemonade.
Dusting down the body-boards, bucket, spade.

When they opened Springtide they found Alice,
still as a waxwork in a garden chair,
dry like blown sand, her dress nibbled by mice.
They’d never thought to search for her in there.
Police believed she’d gone to Birmingham
(judging from some grainy CCTV) –
back to where her own spring tide once ran.
Her rigid fist was locked around the key.

Marc Woodward

Marc Woodward is a musician and poet living in the rural English West Country.
He has been widely published. His collections includes A Fright of Jays (Maquette Press, 2015); and Hide Songs (Green Bottle Press, 2018). A further collection The Tin Lodes written collaboratively…

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