Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

What do Twisters taste of?
More than just strawberry,
Pineapple and lime,
They taste of Rhyl,
Of sun-drenched caravan holidays,
Metal railings so hot they scorched the skin,
The rust-on-blue arch of the bridge across the river
Where it spilled into the sea,
Estuary air laced with the tang of salt,
Golden grains sifting beneath my feet,
The suck and drag of the receding tide
Tunnelling under my toes,
Seaweed fronds tickling my ankles,
The scrape of barnacles against bare skin,
A Mermaid’s Purse,
Lying desiccated on the sand,
The roar of rollercoasters
Drifting down the seafront,
To shops filled with trinkets and souvenirs
That no one has ever needed,
But we buy them anyway,
Shark-head litter pickers,
Squeaking rubber seals,
And star fish
Embalmed for posterity,
Much like my memories
Of those long-ago days.

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