SKYLARK
On the desolate promenade, the wind claws at my clothing. while the angry sea scratches and snarls at pebbles on the beach.
I remember the scents of suntan oil, hot dogs, and fish and chips. I remember dads paddling, seagulls diving, and there, on the jetty, my beloved Jimmy, making his pitch...
' Anymore for the Skylark?'
Was that really fifty years ago?
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