Great British Holiday Poem by Kathy Greethurst

We step out of our bronze caravan - only one dog allowed -
onto a concrete weed garden - as lightning
strikes a thunder-clapping streaky bacon sky.

Pebbledash shanties built in the fifties wing it to survive.
Gardens sink in litter, bangers rust on crazy-paving drives.
Bullet holes perforate the chip shop window
and a sign on the door says 'business as usual.'

On the beach, we meet a man with tears tattooed down his cheeks
and the Staffordshire terrier he kidnapped for a better life.
Our dogs chase each other in circles on the sand.
He asks, 'what brings you here? This is English Beirut.'

I think of airstrikes - in some far-off place.
A reporter in a flak jacket dodges bullets
to bring the latest from the city that won't die.
Soldier boys fire real guns, kill real people.
I wish I could flick the 'off' switch.
Instead, I see the carnage over and over again.

The man with tears tattooed down his cheeks says,
'they want to build a marina here.'
I ask who they are. He doesn't know.