Picture of Bournemouth Beach








There is a wretched scratching at my door

A niggling doubt of my master calling

The fictitious one that lends me tokens for my time

And it vexes me to hear this

There is a quiet glade

Stuck between what I was

Before it all became toxic

And ticker tape platitudes

Drab neighbourhoods fearful

To peek over the parapet

And the other pillar a distraction

Mopping up these crumbs

When I see past this

And begin to make good my time

I leave it behind as I sit

In a sunlit glade just next door to me