Bournemouth Blues Poem by Angela Wybrow

In the summer, in the baking sun,
Bournemouth oozes a sense of fun,
But in the winter, when skies are grey,
I have no real desire to want to stay.

Today, the silvery sea is surfer-less;
The wind on my face is cold and fresh.
On my face, I can feel the sea's spray,
As, along the prom, we make our way.

The beach beyond is now almost bare;
The wild wind roughly ruffles my hair.
A couple of people walk along the pier;
In the sea air, there is now left little cheer.

The sea is coloured like a grey battleship;
No kiosks are open for fish and chips.
At the seafront pub, we have a cup of tea;
We sit by the window, looking out to sea.

At the seafront pub, the people are all inside;
At this time of year, there's no Land Train ride.
Out on the ocean, no boats are bobbing about;
From the Fairground, there are no excited shouts.

Down on the beach, dogs are exercised;
Up in the air, seagulls execute noisy cries.
Towards the beach, the waves all race;
Topped with foam, which looks like lace.

That it was still summer, I really do wish;
The sounds of summer, I really do miss.
Along the seafront, we do not stroll,
Because the weather is far too cold.

Darkness starts to fall, come late afternoon:
In my opinion, it draws in way too soon.
The daylight now quickly begins to fade,
As, back to the Station, we make our way.