Hastings Beach 1974
Ignoring the arguments and the cigarette fug,
I rub the condensation from the window.
It won’t be long before white noise stops
its sibilant assault on roof and windscreen.
Rolling down the window, just a crack,
to breathe in fresh salt air with a sad veneer
of vinegar sharpness, wet chips, boiled whelks.
The weather-thwarted seaside treat plays out
as it always has.
I drown the sibling tantrums out; slot machines
are not that important. I’m content enough
to sip Heinz Tomato Soup from the plastic
top of a well-worn Thermos flask and lose myself
in the relentless beauty
of raging, murderous waves.
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Will Vigar 
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