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)