The island fortress bakes in silence.

I sit shaded by the pines,

High above me, the look out post watches the bay,

The cicadas are strumming in anticipation of action,

The feeble breeze carries the voices of day-trippers

Waiting for the last boat of summer.

So musing on sentinels, I ponder

My talent for reconnaissance;

Nurtured from an early age (I think?)

By dad who dispatched me off

To take point and report back

On dangers lurking

At the end of Blackpool’s Central Pier.

In time, my nose for sensing what’s ahead

Became a skill people paid good money for.

But they call it strategy.

The restaurant is quiet now,

The final whistle has blown for the table footballers

The bikini pop up shop,

And the kaleidoscope of scenarios I have foreseen.

(*The look out post)