Between Shore Road and Branksome Chine,
beneath the beach huts of Canford Cliffs,
is an international football pitch
with a ghost ship’s cargo from Shanklin
Yellow posts, memories of Small Hope Beach,
Hawkins’ legacy; a high pass,
acrobatic weightlessness grounded
by a stationary charter to Tahiti
Unfunded, in the national stadium
we gamble, peel away to the far post
on barely navigable contours of sand,
the odd chip- ‘Umbro wouldn’t sponsor this…’
philosophers on benches think in error
The old shed wall lines one side,
the sea another. Imagine in November
a rainbow flick, those shutters
on the ice cream shop, those elegance
occluding mists, hot squash, the sun
in striking season, samba rhythms
to the Harry Ramsden’s take out
for the Russian World Champion
reconaissance delegation
visiting the sea front,
booking out the beach huts