On Sundays they come
To walk off lunch,
Or linger in coffee shops,
Some to continue last night’s
Unfinished conversations.

For there is a purpose
In every step,
Every spin
Of pram wheel,
And every meeting of eyes

Across the streets
And potholed
Pavements,
Of this seaside
Grid iron town.

A place where waves roll
Lazily across the bay
From the cliffs to the harbour,
Indifferent to any pause
Between one week and another.