FRINTON

There is a poem in the Morning Star about Frinton Golf Club, so here is my poem about Frinton generally. Most of my family enjoyed their holiday there, but this is how it seemed to me.



FRINTON

There are no dogs in Frinton,
no ice creams, no cycling, hardly any
buses; buses are vulgar, so by decree
all buses drop you at the Boundary.
There are some gulls of course, not raucous,
for unseemly noise is not allowed
so seagulls clamour silently.

Retirement homes and swathes of grass
mowed tidily, and seats adorned
with tasteful plaques in memory -
"He died upon the greensward
after a fine day's fishing" far beyond
the beach huts serried row on row.
The back rows though more private
are considered less genteel.

Wandering north of Frinton, seeking countryside
I wondered why they dropped industrial containers
along a headland, but of course as I approached
I saw that they were beach huts, supplementary
beach huts. I presume you cannot possibly
have superfluity of beach huts.

There are careful cries of children
in well bred sunshine, rushing slowly,
digging circumspectly, dancing courtly,
throwing gently, catching,
wading in quiet water to the waist,
a little jump with each miniscule wave,
breasting the ocean in a fledgling way,
and the butterflies upon the greensward
as fine as any in the world.

The wind farm on the far horizon
is the future, but remote enough
to not disturb a cup of tea
in a beach hut contemplating
leviathan propellers on the sea,
in a resort where seagulls dare not scream.


Norman Andrews, on holiday, Summer 2011.