The last remnant of summer

The Beach Huts, a poem by Mike Bliss

The weathered wood and peeling paint
Hints of days of glory past
When I skipped along the promenade
Past postcards beyond my ken.

But that was then, and now is now
They've had a lick of paint, but
Beach huts hark back to a quieter time
Of quiet children, well-mannered gentlemen.

We await the melted ice-cream cones
Leering from the sky
And corporate-suited gentlemen
Watching traditions die.

But it doesn't have to be this way
We can keep this place alive
With silly hats and fish and chips
Seagulls, and you and I.