Whitstable
Eating oysters with my friends,The wind whips our hair about our faces
As we walk past Wheeler's pink paint.
On the beach the stones scrunch under foot
And the dog's afraid of the sea.
The tide is well in.
Two pints of bitter from the local pub
Puts a bloom in our cheeks as we sit
In the sun or queue for the chippy.
On the way home, I fall asleep
Knocked out by the ozone and mineral air,
My last thought's of the beach and the oysters.
Poetry by la tristesse
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Written on 2006-10-29 at 19:02
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by la tristesseLatest textsHenry's LamentEctopic Beats Ideal English Tough Love |
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