No nouveau Novocastrian shipwrecked on
the beach explains away a penchant walk
between these bays’ derailing senses ease;
Bar and Merewether take from dawn ‘til
dusk at least a power of pounding feet, of
runners clad in Adidas or gaudy sneakers
chic and flush in glittered rush along a strand
of pulses set to max, faces fix’dly glazed.
Some are living slim in tanned physique and
dreams effete but most are rudely puffed of
ruddy countenance if thus allaying fears they
must enjoy a penanced overweight or seemly
life of mortgaged luxury beside the sea; in all
the years surveyed I’ve yet to see one such...
© 12 February 2011, I. D. Carswell
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