Seaside Lockdown. A poem by George Gibson

This town is living
in lockdown while the
sun shines and seagulls
take over, scavenging.

A man sits with his back
to the war memorial,
eating fish and chips
from a brown paper bag.
He stares out emptily
over the sea.
He has nowhere left
to look.
His face is red from
sunburn. Ill-advised.

The ice cream shop is
closed despite the time.
Shop fronts haven’t changed
in months.
A few bits of litter float
on sea breeze like a
lost and found.
A few cars stumble on the
sea front; parking on pavements
isn’t a crime tonight.

I’d like to join the guy
with the fish and chips,
but he’s not interested.
His solitude, self imposed.

He feels worse than
Robinson Crusoe ever could.

The man pulls a can out
his jacket pocket; it hisses
release. He’s washing
his chips down.

Be careful if you want
to play on empty swings
across the road.
Red and white ribbon isn’t
celebrating anything
these days.

George Gibson is a former Civil Servant who lives in the West of Scotland near Loch Lomond.