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?